


Miss Fisher Made Me Do It!

by Arlome



Series: Arlome's Tumblry Prompts [5]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Mostly Phrack, Some Humor, Tumblr Prompt, luciphrack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-18 21:40:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 31,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22800274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlome/pseuds/Arlome
Summary: A merry gathering of all my mfmm tumblr prompts. More to come!
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Series: Arlome's Tumblry Prompts [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1435951
Comments: 537
Kudos: 276





	1. Ballast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurora_australis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_australis/gifts), [whopooh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whopooh/gifts), [Bluecityrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluecityrose/gifts).



> No beta, we die like men.
> 
> For my lovely Whopooh, Aurora and Blue - you ladies are the bee's knees!

For: Mutual pining + In vino veritas

**Ballast**

It’s case after case, and nightcap after nightcap; the evenings drag longer and longer, and he finds that leaving her side gets more difficult with every visit. 

Their intimate evenings together never turn into nights, never morph into lazy mornings, full of caresses and sighs - but their partings are full to the brim of lingering glances, and missed opportunities; of ‘wrong timing’s, and ‘too much ballast for lift-off’. 

He laments that he’s never going to be liberal-minded enough for her - even if he’d like nothing more than to be as modern as the men she graces with her fleeting carnal attentions - and so he sits in her parlour, and drinks her whisky, and treats her as his equal in every sense of the word, and keeps away from her bed. He knows it’ll break him to leave her.

She regrets that she can never give him what she thinks he wants - even though he is the only man in the world with the smidge of a chance to sway her - and so she wears the brooch and the badge, and plays draughts, and keeps the parlour warm for his visits, but never flirts too close to the flame. She’d rather not have him at all than break his heart. 

It’s thwarted love and miscommunications, misplaced nobility and gracious sacrifice; it’s mutual pining and yearning in a way that is all too well known to him and almost entirely alien to her. As is nearly always the case, both are completely oblivious and blind (’and dumb’, as a certain doctor would no doubt supply) to the depth of the other’s feelings. 

Then, it’s a difficult case and a nightcap gone long, and there’s too much wine involved; the parlour is warm and the firelight dim, and her eyes are like stars, bright and otherworldly. He is slightly drunk, and she is more than tipsy, and her parted lips and the warmth of his gaze are fodder for rash decisions. 

They fall into bed, entwined and gasping, moving as one in the darkness of her boudoir; there’re many double kisses, and sighs and cries, and intimacy that goes beyond her parted thighs. They do not speak of love, but they do feel it.

And the evening turns to night and morphs into a lazy morning.


	2. Envy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For “Are we on a date right now?”

“…and then he looks up at me, all puppy-eyed and dazed, and asks, ‘Are we on a date right now’? So I turn to him, give him my sweetest smile, and say, “silly Hugh, _of course_ we are”!” 

Phryne Fisher shakes her head at her assistant’s story and takes another sip of whisky.

“Men, my dear Dot,” she starts philosophically, “are clueless and hopeless, but they do have their uses.”

Dorothy Williams giggles and blushes, hiding her pretty face behind the gigantic paper umbrella the smitten bartender put in her virgin cocktail. 

Mac snorts in utter distaste and downs her vodka. She’s never been one to beat around the bush.

“Or they don’t,” she grouses and motions for another drink. “Trust me, Dottie, women are the answer to everything.”

Dot blushes again and Phryne rolls her eyes at her friends; time to change the subject.

“So, everything’s going fine with your dashing constable?” she asks, twirling her almost empty tumbler in her hand. “Everything back on track after that Ball debacle last week?” 

Dot slumps a little in her seat and Phryne finds herself beyond politely interested. 

“It’s… good, Miss,” the younger woman says, dunking the hideously pink umbrella in the innocent cocktail. “It’s just…he’s always busy, always at the Station, and when we go out, he’s tired. Can’t you talk to the Inspector, Miss? Maybe convince him to give Hugh fewer shifts?”

Phryne nearly drops her glass on the table.

“Oh, I’d be happy to try, Dot,” she offers and places her unfinished drink back on firm land. “But you know I have little sway over Jack. After all, we’re just colleagues.” 

Mac snorts into her drink.

***

She’s panting with exertion, shaking with satiating release. Sweat pools at the hollow of her throat and coats her alabaster skin in a thin film of radiance, giving her an almost ethereal glow in the low light of her spacious bedroom.

“Now _that,_ Inspector,” she huffs, laughing and smiling with a flood of endorphins that threatens to overtake her and drown her very being, “was quite the workout.”

He chuckles and falls back against her cotton sheets, his breath rapid and shaky.

“You can say that again,” he smiles smugly, his teeth gleaming white in the semi-darkness. “No, seriously, you can.”

She hits him playfully and he laughs, pulling her tight to his chest. Phryne curls against his side and splays her fingers over his ribcage.

“Jaaaaacckk,” she begins after a few moments pass and their breath goes back to normal; she’s deterred from her course by his low chuckle and the shaking of his chest beneath her.

“Oh no,” he sighs, his fingers skimming the small of her back absentmindedly. “Alright, out with it.”

“How do you know I want anything?” she asks innocently, her voice rising a little towards the end.

He pulls her to him and kisses the crown of her head; something inside her melts a little at the gesture.

“Because I know _you_ , Phryne; so, come on - out with it.”

‘Well...I met Dot today - “

Jack groans.

“Phryne,” he sighs and runs a hand over his handsome face. “I know your assistant wants to spend time with her boyfriend, but I’m not taking Collins off his schedule.”

Well, damn. She should have realised he’ll see right through that.

“Surely, some leniency in his shift schedule won’t hurt his progress…?” she murmurs, her left thigh rising a little upwards to press against his most sensitive parts. Jack groans in appreciation but places a firm hand over her leg, halting her progress.

“Absolutely out of the question, Miss Fisher,” he says deeply, and Phryne shivers just a tad. She can’t help it when he sounds so authoritative, and she has a feeling the smug bastard knows it. “Collins is a good lad, he shows promise; but he’s green and gullible. Too young for his own good.”

She snorts and rises a little to plant her chin on his chest.

“You’re thirty-seven, Jack; that’s hardly ancient.”

Her inspector rolls his eyes at her, the line of his jaw jumping a little; he really is quite lovely. 

“It has nothing to do with age, Phryne, and everything to do with experience.”

It’s her turn to roll her eyes this time.

“Is this where we talk about your years in the ADF, Lieutenant Robinson?” 

He smirks down at her, his gaze appreciative.

“Or we can talk about yours, Nurse Fisher.”

“Point taken,” she purrs and leans over him to plant a kiss to his generous mouth. He hums enthusiastically and pulls her over him; there’s no more talking for a while.

“So, no chance for Hugh?” Phryne asks once the kisses are over; she’s sitting astride his hips, drawing lazy circles over his taut abdomen. 

“None whatsoever,” Jack replies smugly and reaches for his watch. One glance at the digits sends him cursing. “Ugh, fuck. I have to go.”

“Must you?” she pouts, rocking her hips just a little, trying to distract him from leaving. He groans deep in his throat, his hands flying to her waist.

“Phryne, I can’t stay, you know it,” he gasps, his fingers flexing against her skin. “If anybody finds out I’m sleeping with my civilian consultant, they’ll never let me work cases with you again.” 

“What rot,” she mutters darkly and climbs off his lap. Jack sighs shakily in relief.

“Would you rather work with O’Shaughnessy?” he asks, knowing full well what her reaction will be.

Sure enough, Phryne regards him with a mix of disgust and dawning horror.

“O’Shaughnessy is an idiot!” she cries in dismay, and Jack shrugs a little complacently.

“My point exactly.”

He rises from her bed, naked and sweaty from their rather spectacular session of vigorous fucking, and Phryne leans back against her pillows to appreciate the view as he gathers his clothes off her floor.

“What if we were married?” she asks suddenly. “What then?”

Jack freezes in the midst of pulling his shirtsleeves on, his back turned to her.

“I thought you weren’t into marriage,” he says, at last, his voice somewhere miles away. 

Phryne shrugs; then, remembering he can’t possibly see her reaction, she adds, “I’m not. Just wondering aloud.” 

“Hmmm.”

He sits on the bed to pull his trousers on and tie his shoelaces. 

“I suspect the outcome is the same, to be honest,” he says after a while. “I don’t know of any married detectives who work together as partners.”

“So, no elopement in our future, then?”

He turns to her, smiling a little wistfully. “Probably not.”

Phryne’s breath stutters in her throat at the sight of him rising off the bed, at the vision of him slinging his tie around his neck.

“Jack,” she murmurs, and he stops fidgeting with the silky stripe of fabric. “I do love you, you know.”

His eyes soften and he leans over to kiss her with all the emotion he keeps locked away in his deep, passionate heart.

“What’s this about, Phryne?” he asks, his fingers brushing some strands of her raven hair behind one ear. “What’s brought this on?”

“I envy Dot!” she cries suddenly, her voice rising a little in intensity. Jack looks at her in surprise. “And I envy Hugh! They can be open with their relationship and only need to worry about him being on the clock too often. But you and I… we have to sneak around like some criminals. It’s not fair…”

He smiles down at her - one of those secret, open smiles; one with actual _teeth_ showing - and gently takes her face in his hands.

“True,” he agrees, even though his eyes are shining almost wickedly. “But think of all the fun you and I get to have.”

Phryne pulls him down by the loose ends of his tie; it takes some time before he’s fit enough to leave her bed.

***

She finds him the next day at work, pouring over their latest case file. 

“Good morning, Inspector,” she singsongs and takes a seat on the edge of his desk. Jack raises his eyes at her, seemingly unimpressed, but under the table, his thigh presses into her calf.

“Miss Fisher,” he rumbles, his eyes dark and intense. “I wondered when you’ll be coming in. There’s something in the evidence storage room that I need to show you.”

Phryne smiles brightly, her expression just on the right side of sly. She hops off the desk, her fingers brushing his arm.

“Lead the way, Inspector.”

Jack is right, they _do_ have fun.


	3. Hello, Neighbour!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For: neighbour au + flirting under fire.

  1. George Sanderson’s gift to his daughter upon her wedding to a young, promising Senior Constable Robinson is a lovely house in St. Kilda. It’s roomy and bright and far grander than anything Jack is used to or can ever afford, but it makes Rosie happy, and so he does not object. They spend a lovely year in it, making love on every available surface and filling its many rooms with laughter until the war comes a-calling; then Jack bids goodbye to the sunny parlour and the warm kitchen, to the inviting bedroom and his weeping wife, and goes in search of death for King and Country. There’s no more laughter upon his return.



  1. in 1925, Rosie goes to live with her sister, leaving Jack alone in the grand house. It’s too big for him, too roomy and empty, and so he uses as few rooms as possible and covers all spare furniture in dust sheets. In early August 1928, he gains a new neighbour across the street. Jack groans and pinches the bridge of his nose when he finds out the identity of said neighbour.



  1. Phryne figures it out almost immediately.



  1. They strike up a friendship over nightcaps and cases. She never asks of his wife; he never divulges any private information. That is, until he does, over shared mediocre whisky in his office, after a case filled with dreams of gold and homeland and doomed love. ‘A marriage is still a marriage, Miss Fisher’, he says, and that seems to be the end of it.



  1. It all changes when Rosie finally asks for a divorce. 



“What would you like me to do with the house?” he asks her as she sits in their old parlour, a cup of tea in her sure hand. It’s sunny again, and warm, as if the mere presence of Rosie can bring the light back into the dreary room. 

“Keep it, Jack. It’s been your home for the past 15 years. I’d like you to have it,” she answers kindly and smiles a little tremulously. The cup shakes a little in her hand, and he reaches out to steady her. They share a resolute glance and nod at each other. At least they can end it amicably.

  1. Miss Fisher inserts herself ever deeper into his life. At one point, she even crosses the street to ask for a cup of sugar, her delightful eyes full of mischief. Jack gives her his trademark look of part amusement, part exasperation and beckons her inside. They drink tea in the garden and whisky in the parlour. She leaves without the sugar.



  1. They start flirting in the most inconvenient places: his office under the widening eyes of Constable Collins, her aunt’s parlour during an investigation, over the corpse of a wealthy lady. They even find themselves in the middle of a gang war, under heavy fire, crouching behind some wooden crates at the docks, their eyes burning hotter than the ammunition.



“Jack, that’s a lovely tie,” she purrs, reaching out to smooth her fingers down the silk. “Is it new?”

He looks down at her hand, then up at her face, his eyes slightly clouded, blood thrumming with adrenaline and the desire to kiss her.

“Kind of you to notice, Miss Fisher,” he answers, his voice low, despite the raucous around them. “I bought for a certain special occasion. I take it you approve?” 

Bullets fly above their heads; rival thugs are screaming bloody murder; Phryne smiles brilliantly at the mention of their anticipated dinner.

“Oh, I most certainly do!”

  1. They spend the evening before her flight in his parlour, drinks in hand, maps and charts on the floor. Phryne sighs and leans back against the back of his chaise, her legs tucked underneath her.



“I wish I didn’t have to go,” she laments, her eyes closed. “I’m going to miss this.”

He looks at her a second too long. 

“This isn’t going anywhere,” he says at last and feels a little breathless. 

Phryne smiles and doesn’t open her eyes.

  1. They lie entwined in post-coital bliss, the crisp English countryside air creeping in from the open window. She arches in his arms, hums contentedly. and rises just a little to kiss his jaw.



“Penny for your thoughts,” she says and brushes the stray lock of hair off his forehead.

Jack smiles down at her and shrugs.

“I’m selling the house,” he says lightly and laughs a little when Phryne sits up. The blanket slides down her torso, bearing her lovely breast to his appreciative gaze.

“But why?” she demands, “I thought you loved living there.”

The house is haunted by the spectre of his life with Rosie, there’s dust in the slumbering rooms. He chooses not to burden Phryne with such melancholy thoughts.

“I figured it was time for a new beginning,” he says instead, his chest grows warm when her eyes soften, and her cheeks fill with blood.

“Where would you live?” she asks, lying down again and sliding under his outstretched arm. Jack smiles softly and stares at the ceiling, his hand caressing the soft skin of her hip.

“Well, I’ve always been partial to Richmond…”


	4. In My Cups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For: “How drunk was I?”

After the contortionist leaves, Jack lingers in the parlour, unsure of how to proceed. He’s got a vague recollection of last night - he’s said more than he ever cared to say, drank more than he ever dared drink - it isn’t pretty; it isn’t kind.

Miss Fisher returns to the parlour, huffing an exasperated breath.

“I don’t trust that girl as far as I can throw her,” she mutters under her breath, before turning to him. Her face changes, her expression turns sly. “Care for some breakfast, Jack? We missed supper, let me at least feed you now.”

“Miss Fisher…” he begins, clearly about to decline. He needs to return home and change before heading for the Station; he also needs to put some distance between himself and the woman in front of him. The disappoint of the previous night burns at his innards with great intensity.

But Phryne Fisher has other plans. 

“Jack, please,” she huffs, the tone of her voice oddly hesitant, the slyness gone completely from her face. “For Mr Butler’s sake, if not for mine. He slaved for hours at the stove yesterday.”

He finds that he cannot refuse her, not when she pleads with him so sincerely, so he just nods a little dumbfoundedly and follows her into the dining room where, sure enough, the table is set with clean plates and quite the substantial amount of his favourite dishes. 

“I’m sorry we missed it,” he says and pulls up a chair for her, then lowers himself into a seat on her left.

Phryne looks into his eyes with all the sincerity in the world. “So am I.”

Jack’s head hurts too much for him to enjoy a proper breakfast, so he settles for a cup of bracing tea and a cheese scone, instead. She watches him as he eats rather unenthusiastically, a cup of strong Greek coffee in her hands. 

When he’s done chewing, he turns to her, solemn and serious.

“Miss Fisher, allow me to - “

“There’s no need, Jack,” she cuts him off hurriedly as if she wishes to sweep the recollection of last night under the proverbial rug. “You were not yourself. “

“Nevertheless,” he insists. “Some of the things I said - “

“Jack,” she cuts in again, putting her cup on the table. “People say all sorts of things when they are…incapacitated. I’m no stranger to this particular phenomenon myself.” 

An image of an intoxicated Phryne Fisher barges into Jack’s mind. He shakes his head to try and dislodge it.

“How drunk was I?” he asks tentatively, wincing slightly. Phryne smiles a little at his unease. He supposes it serves him right.

“I’d say you were more ‘somewhat inebriated’ that downright drunk,” she muses, putting him out of his misery. “But that’s what happens when you drink a substantial amount of spirits on an empty stomach.” 

Jack nods and Phryne takes another sip of coffee; silence descends on the dining room; not exactly charged, but not easy either.

“So,” he ventures when he’s had enough of the sound of cutlery and crockery being nervously moved about. “Your father…”

She groans dramatically.

“That man,” she mutters and rolls her eyes, and Jack has to fight off a smile with iron-cast determination. “Always interfering, always - “

“You could have told me it was him,” he rushes before he can lose his nerve, the fingers of his left hand clenching around the napkin in his lap. “Your unexpected house guest; you could have told me, Phryne.”

She deflates a little and looks down at her empty cup, running her finger over the thin rim. 

“I should have, yes,” she agrees, “but I was taken by surprise by his arrival, and by the time I grudgingly came to terms with his presence here in Melbourne, it’d all gone downhill.”

‘It’ being their spectacular bout of miscommunication, of course.

“It must have been quite a shock,” Jack offers, pursing his lips.

Phryne actually snorts.

“You can say that again,” she agrees; then, after a moment of contemplation, she brightens considerably and turns to him. “But no matter, he’ll be gone soon. I already bought him a ticket for the first steamer leaving Melbourne; the boat sails in a fortnight, but I’m more than willing to pay for his board at some hotel, as far away from this house as possible!” 

Jack chuckles at that and Phryne smiles at the sound, leaning a little towards him, her elbow resting on the table.

“So, what do you say, Jack,” she asks, her eyes shining a little impishly. “Third time’s the charm?”

Jack allows the corner of his mouth to tug upwards in amused adoration. 

“As you say, Miss Fisher.”


	5. Kiss Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For: “needing to kiss to get away from the bad guys”.

The thudding of heavy feet is getting louder and coming closer. There’s two of them, one pistol between them, against 10 thugs from the docks, all heavily armed.

“We’ll never outrun them, Miss Fisher,” Jack pants, almost doubled in half, bracing himself with one palm against the brick wall in the alley they’re currently hiding in. “Where are your red-raggers?” 

Phryne is leaning with her back against the same wall, chest heaving, and shakes her head. 

“Too far away; they’ll never make it in time.”

Shouts and bullets fly close enough to be almost upon them, and Jack straightens and takes a step closer, no doubt seeking to do the honourable thing and try to somehow shield her with his body.

 _Dear man_ , she thinks and yanks him forward by the lapels of his coat.

Jack looks at her in astonishment as she tugs both hats off their heads and throws them far out of sight.

“Phryne?”

She smiles almost wickedly at the poor man, as she pulls him downwards to her level.

“All part of the job, Detective Inspector,” she purrs and crushes her lips to his slightly open mouth.

It takes a few moments for him to realise what’s happening, but when he finally clues in, his reaction sends a jolt of pleasure down Phryne’s spine. His arms come to encircle her as he pulls her to him rather enthusiastically, his lips urgent and insatiable against her delighted mouth. He actually moans into the kiss, tasting her with relish, biting at her lower lip with great ardour, as if they are alone in the world and not being chased down by a small mob.

They’re making quite a scene, there’s no doubt about it; one of his hands migrates from her waist and is trailing up her thigh, one of his legs is pressed tightly against her centre. Phryne trembles and shakes in his arms with a force that has very little to do with adrenaline, and everything to do with their waltz. Slow and close indeed.

The thugs pass them by with little notice, except some half-hearted jeers and wolf-whistles, and continue on their goose-chase down the docks. Jack’s lips trail down Phryne’s throat and his fingers slip up her skirt.

“Jack!” she gasps in delight and arches into him. She always knew he was a very passionate man. “ _Jack_!”

But the sound of his name pulls him from the lustful haze and into the present, and he starts a little at their position and takes a step backwards, flushed and a little horrified.

She reaches for him before he can get too far away from her.

“I’m sorry if you think I took a liberty, Inspector,” she throws at him, smiling mischievously, the sound of her voice breathy with need. Jack recognises her jab and smiles ruefully.

“Let’s call a spade a spade, Miss Fisher,” he replies, and Phryne’s is delighted at the gravely sound of his voice. “You kissed me.”

“You kissed me back.”

Jack smiles and leans over just a smidge.

“And I’m not here to apologise.”

She pulls him back to her and pushes her fingers into his coifed hair.

“Come back to Wardlow with me, Jack,” she breathes in his ear and he shudders. “We can discuss the case over drinks in my private parlour.”

His strong hands are warm against her blouse and she flexes a little against his lovely fingers.

He smiles his crooked little smile, his eyes dancing.

“How can I refuse, Miss Fisher?”


	6. Luciphrack One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For: “I’ve heard about you - you’re the one who quotes poetry.”
> 
> A little mfmm/Lucifer crossover

“I’ve heard about you - you’re the one who quotes poetry.”

Jack regards the tall stranger with all the intensity of his profession. The man is rich, that much is certain, the cut of his elegant suit screams old money; he’s also quite cunning - there’s a glint to his eyes that speaks of endless wit and a strategic mind. He only _plays_ the fool to a court of imbeciles of would-be kings and queens. 

“You can say that,” Jack answers, offering his hand. “Inspector Jack Robinson.”

The man’s eyes glimmer mischievously as he takes Jack’s hand and squeezes it heartily in greeting.

“Lucifer Morningstar,” he purrs, his smile wide and wicked. “ _Delighted_ to make your acquaintance, Inspector.”

Jack laughs; trust Phryne to know the Devil.


	7. Luciphrack Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For: “She had never seen anything like this before, and she was Phryne Fisher, which means she had seen many, many things.”
> 
> The continuation of the previous drabble.

Both men were sitting by the fire in her parlour, in various states of undress. Lucifer was stripped down to his smalls; Jack retained the little left of his dignity by still wearing his pair of trousers, the braces hanging off his bare shoulders.

“Jack!” she exclaimed, eyes wide and unbelieving. “What have you to say for yourself?”

Her Inspector gulped rather audibly and attempted his trade-mark self-deprecating smile.

“The Devil made me do it…?”


	8. Make-Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For: “the diamond in your engagement ring is fake”

They think they are so damn clever.

It’s a well-guarded secret, at first, kept away from all prying eyes and wagging tongues; something precious that only the two of them - and her loyal household - are privy to. It’s exciting and new, brilliant and all-encompassing, and her heart swells in a way unknown to her before at the thrilling, clandestine nature of this affection, one that is so thoroughly different than her previous affairs of the flesh.

It all goes swimmingly until he is seen leaving her house early in the morning one too many times, wearing the same suit he wore to work the previous day. The factory of vicious rumours begins producing all sorts of farfetched gems, and the nature of their relationship becomes the topic of various tea dances and garden parties all across Melbourne. Eventually, the good inspector is summoned to a rather awkward conversation down at Russel Street, that leaves him rather frustrated, but amuses his partner exceedingly.

“Not to worry, Jack,” she says, smiling lazily, her head pillowed on his sweat-slicked abdomen after a rather vigorous session of lovemaking. “We’ll figure something out.” 

The idea forms in her ever-thinking head rather organically, and even though he is reluctant to agree at first - no doubt worried she might come to resent the arrangement in some way - he ends up acquiescing to the scheme like the reluctant good sport he can sometimes be. And so, a decision is tentatively made and is left to lie as low as possible, until a few days pass and the two detectives find themselves on the same case.

They’re walking down Wellington St, heading to the police car that’s wisely parked a few blocks away from the rowdy part of Collingwood in which one of their suspects lives when Jack stops in front of a pawnbroker’s window, a rather reflective expression on his handsome face.

“Jack?” Phryne asks as he pats down his pockets with an air of deep concentration, but the man just holds up a finger at her inquiry and disappears into the shop.

He emerges a few minutes later, his lips set in his subtle, lopsided smile, and drops something small and circular into the palm of her hand.

It’s a comely Paste set in a simple gold ring, one square stone fixed right in the middle of a thin strip of reddish gold. It’s probably too small for her taste - she’s accustomed to bigger, more substantial rings - but one look at Jack’s open face endears the thing to her. 

His eyes are smiling, shining with the shared joke, full to the brim with mischief so unlike him, that Phryne feels light on her feet. And when he goes down on one knee in the middle of the busy street, not even bothering with doffing his hat, she nearly snorts with the absurdity of the situation.  
  
“Will you fake marry me, Miss Fisher?” he asks, and the corners of his generous mouth twitch with the need to curl into a smile.

She laughs and shakes her head at the ridiculous mock-proposal, but nods almost eagerly, nonetheless.

“Yes, yes, a million times yes!” she gasps dramatically, and squeals in delight when Jack springs to his feet and sweeps her off hers to a few lazy cheers from a slowly gathering crowd.

“Let’s see Russel Street having qualms about _this_!” Jack whispers in her ear, laughing almost giddily. “Here you are, making an honest man out of me.”

She brushes his cheek lovingly and leans into his tight embrace, ignoring the world around them.

“You were always an honest man, Jack Robinson,” she mutters, a little overcome despite herself. “I never needed a silly ring to tell me that.”  
  
They make love on her bedroom floor that night, slowly and deeply, naked and laughing, the silly little ring catching the low light between their shifting bodies. She never takes it off.

They let the gossip columns do their job for them; a few gatherings where the pair are seen together, the simple ring on Phryne’s finger prominent and telling, sends the socialites of Melbourne into a frenzy. The two detectives never outrightly confirm or deny a thing, but Jack is never summoned by Russel Street to awkward talks of a rather personal nature again. 

A fundraising luncheon at Aunt P’s brings the honeymoon to a rather jolting pause. The old battle axe takes one less-than-discreet look at the ring, blanches, and asks for a quick moment of Phryne’s time.

“Whatever is the matter, Aunt P?” Phryne asks, worried at the paleness of her aunt’s face. “We’ve left poor Jack alone with all those hungry-looking women; he might never recover if we don’t hurry back!”

Prudence Stanley scrutinizes her niece with considerable shrewdness, her head tilting in the direction of the ring.

“So, are the rumours true?” she asks, at last, her voice just a little on the shrill side.

Phryne blinks innocently and tugs on one dangling earring.

“What rumours?” she asks, seemingly naive, but the pitch of her tone rises slightly towards the end of the question and she winces inwardly. She has a ‘tell’ and she knows it.

“Don’t play coy with me, my girl,” her aunt replies sternly, pointing at Phryne’s left hand. “Are you or are you not engaged to be married to Detective Inspector Jack Robinson?”

Phryne sighs and abandons all pretence; it’s not like she ever truly stood a shot with the older woman.

“Jack and I have an… understanding,” she divulges reluctantly, mentally preparing herself for her aunt’s lecture on propriety and station. 

But Prudence Stanley only sighs worriedly and wrings her plump hands, nearly shocking her niece into a stupor.

“My dear,” she begins shakily, not knowing how to approach the situation. “You know I hold your inspector in the highest regard - he is a good, decent man; very educated too, which is a pleasant surprise, for a man of his station - but… well… my dear girl, the diamond in your engagement ring is _fake_.”

Phryne exhales in relief, smiles a little too brightly, and reaches for her aunt’s hands.

“Oh, Aunt P,” she says softly, her brow furrowing slightly. “I _know_ …”

“You…you know?” the older woman stutters in disbelief. “But…”

Phryne purses her lips and nods.

“So, you’re not engaged, then?” Aunt Prudence asks, and the forlorn note in her voice makes Phryne sadder than she anticipated.

“Afraid not, Aunt,” she replies, smiling a tad self - deprecatingly. “We’d much rather just live in sin.” Then, sighing a little at her aunt’s unimpressed look, she decides to amend her statement. “I assure you; even though the ring is fake, the understanding we have is, in fact, very real.” 

“Why the subterfuge, then? Why play make-belief with the entire world?”

Phryne laughs and shakes her head.

“Hardly the entire world, Aunt Prudence,” she protests, her hand caressing the older woman’s hand. “Just the constabulary.”

Understanding dawns upon the great battle-axe like the new day upon the sleepy land.

“The Inspector’s reputation, I take it?” And when Phryne nods her confirmation, she continues, “But why a fake ring? What if anybody else notices?”

Phryne shrugs. “It’s a shared joke, Aunt. A fake ring for a fake engagement. And you know I hardly care for other people’s opinions; a Paste ring from Jack is worth more than any diamond.”

Her last words take her by surprise. She’s rather shocked by her own conviction, and she suspects it shows. Aunt Prudence certainly notices it, deciding to grab the fleeting chance by its scrawny neck.

“If you’re that much in love with the man, why not just marry him and save all this trouble? I don’t _understand_ , Phryne!”

The lady detective leans over and plants a kiss on her aunt’s forehead. She’ll save the mild panic attack at that particular revelation for later.

“I know you don’t, Aunt,” she sighs fondly and smiles. “If it’s any consolation, I’m rather certain that Jack would’ve proposed if he thought I was that way inclined.”

“And are you sure you’re not…?” the older woman asks, hopefully, her hands coming to rest on Phryne’s arms.

“Pretty sure. But I’ll tell you this, Aunt P; if there was ever a man who could make me reconsider my views on marriage…” she trails off, her eyes shining mischievously. 

Aunt P heaves a long, suffering sigh and shakes her head.

“Alright, I suppose nothing I can say will change your mind. You always were a strong-headed girl… and I suppose there are worse suitors… Senior Detective Inspector has a nice ring to it, and, of course, he may one day be the Commissioner of Police! Highly respectable position - “

When both women finally return to the luncheon, and Phryne finds and rescues Jack from a group of middle-aged women who are abnormally keen on murder mysteries, he places a warm palm on the small of her back and leans over to whisper in her ear.

“What was that all about?”

Phryne smiles and catches her aunt’s shrewd look across the room, noticing a new glint in the older woman’s eyes.

“Nothing to worry about, Jack; but I think it’s safe to assume that we’ve got another person on our team.”

And when they all sit down to tea, Aunt Prudence draws herself to her full, albeit rather lacking height, and turns to Jack with great importance and pride.

“Another slice of pie, _Senior Detective Inspector_?” 

And the dear man smiles and offers his plate.

“Don’t mind if I do, Mrs Stanley.”

They are so damn clever, after all.


	9. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For “you didn’t have to ask”

It always rains on Janey’s birthday. 

It’s a soft beginning-of-spring kind of rain; gentle-falling, quiet, and melancholic to the bone. She always wonders if it knows - a wistful shower for a wistful day; the heavens bemoaning a life that might have been - but the thought makes her feel silly, so she tries not to dwell on it for too long.

This year she has a grave - ( she had it last year, too, but the dreaded date caught her in the air, somewhere over Turkey, where she was closer to the spirit than to the earthly remains) - and she intends to pay her homage to her blood, and atone for the brief time they had together on this earth. 

She finds him at the mausoleum, waiting, and her steps falter, the basket in her hand shaking with her tremor. He’s doffed his hat out of respect for the dead, his shoulders bent a little as he regards the names of the dearly departed; generations of her mother’s family, all at eternal rest. She doesn’t dare disturb him, not when his stoic presence is a grounding fixture for her heart; a fortifying medicinal for her overwhelmed soul. She doesn’t need a man to hold her rooted to the earth, she doesn’t need a tether in a storm, or a trusty rock; she doesn’t need, but she wants - and today, she wants _him_.

He turns to find her at the bottom of the marble stairs and gives her a small, pensive smile, the edges of his trusty grey overcoat swaying a little when he steps aside to allow her entry. She’s almost mesmerised for a fleeting second by the glimpse of crimson tongues as the lining blinks into sudden existence, but his warm hand on her arm breaks the swift spell.

“Jack,” she says a little hoarsely, placing the basket on a marble bench. 

He nods, already _knowing,_ and she’s grateful to him for the chance to remain quiet; thankful for the silent camaraderie. 

They toast Janey’s life and death with the finest whisky, and when her eyes get moist, he pretends to not notice, and only gently presses his hand to the small of her back.

“Thank you for coming,” she says after a while and the sound of her voice is both loud and peaceful in the silence of the graves. “I didn’t know how - “

“You didn’t have to ask, Phryne,” he insists, and the force of his conviction clenches at her ailing heart. “I hope you know that.”

Dear man. _Dearest_ man.

“I know,” she whispers and reaches for his hand.

It always rains on Janey’s birthday, but Phryne doesn’t mind; not anymore.


	10. You're Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For: “This was not how dinner was supposed to go.”

“I was only trying to put them all at ease,” he said, rather miserably.

She sighed and took her partner’s hand between her own.

“I know, darling,” she comforted him, her tone kind and patient. “But perhaps joking about various poisons while serving a homemade dinner wasn’t your best idea.”

“Probably not,” he concurred dejectedly and collapsed into an unoccupied seat.

There really were some matters that detectives should not jest about.


	11. Guns and kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the kisses prompt: 'shoved against the wall' kiss.

There’s a raid.

It’s ugly and dangerous and full of blood and spilling guts and gunpowder. When the smoke clears, and the bodies can be counted and identified, it becomes abundantly obvious that the sweep was not as successful as Russell Street hoped it would be. Seven dead police officers, thirteen dead crims; the number of injured on both sides can fill a bloody hospital. 

Phryne can hear the sirens all the way from her kitchen. The perfectly made cup of tea rattles in her hand as she tries to nonchalantly place it back in its saucer, as she raises her face to smile nervously at her rather heavily expecting companion.

“Did... Hugh mention anything about today, Dot?” she asks innocently, but the pitch of her voice rises a little towards the end of her question, and the younger woman frowns suspiciously at the well-known ‘tell’.

“Like what, Miss?”

“Oh, nothing, really,” Phryne mumbles and tugs a little on the hair at her nape. “Just something... out of the ordinary, perhaps?” 

Mr Butler, God bless his clairvoyant soul, decides to take pity on his employer and lays down the potato he’s been pealing rather attentively.

“I’ll telephone the Station, Miss; I promised to notify the Inspector of any changes regarding supper plans,” he explains and rises from his seat.

There are no supper plans to speak of, of course; Jack’s supposed to be spending the evening with his parents, and Phryne was rather looking forward to finishing her latest Agatha Christie book in peace. Nothing planned but an early, solitary night. 

She really aught to give Mr Butler a raise.

“Thank you, Mr B,” she exhales, incredibly grateful. “I’m sure Jack would appreciate that.” 

_I know I would._

The call doesn’t take long; Mr Butler is back before she knows it. There’s a slight crease in his brow. 

“The Inspector wasn’t in, Miss,” he says, choosing his words carefully, and darting a few worried glances in Dottie’s direction. “I’m afraid there’s been some trouble in Fitzroy and he was called to assist.”

She’s out of her chair and out of her house faster than anybody can say ‘Jack Robinson’.

***

There’s no news at the Station. All Phryne can extract from the stammering, freshly-minted, wet-behind-the-ears constable at the front desk is that there’s been a serious raid of some illegal gambling den in Fitzroy and that Inspector Robinson and a handful of senior constables from City South were called to assist. 

She calls Mac at the Melbourne, barely getting through, her heart pounding in her chest.

“It’s bad, Phryne,” Mac sounds exhausted, “ Complete pandemonium. Reminds me of, well... “

She trails off, not finishing her thought, but Phryne understands; the green fields of France, turned muddy and bloody - there’s no running from them.

“Look, I’ve not seen Jack or Collins,” Mac mutters into the receiver, “but they’re not among the dead.” 

Phryne breathes a sigh of relief, her eyes burning. She can hear shuffling on the other line, distant moaning in the background; somebody’s calling Mac’s name.

“I’ve got to go, Phryne,” he friend says, the tone of her voice turning clipped, clinical. “I’ll call if anything changes.”

She doesn’t call.

***

They’re trying to keep it quiet from Dot, distracting her with light chores, and biscuits whenever the subject of ‘Hugh’ seems to arise. So far, Phryne’s acquired a new doily for her little side table, tasted a batch of freshly baked sponge cakes, and admired a newly embroidered cushion for her parlour. Eventually, Phryne decided to gently, but firmly, guide her protesting companion to a spare bedroom for a quick lie down, claiming that she must rest a bit for the baby’s sake. This seems to finally convince the reluctant Dot, and Phryne is left to her morbidly muse in the parlour.

A little after seven pm, Jack stumbles through her front door and is immediately relieved of his coat and hat by a fawning Mr Butler. She stands in the doorway to her parlour, appraising his form with the critical eye of a seasoned battle nurse. Laceration just above the left eyebrow, a purpling bloom on his right cheekbone; there’s blood on his collar, but she doubts it’s his.

He looks up and into her eyes, and his own are full of _something;_ quite suddenly, she finds it difficult to breathe, hard to move under the onslaught of flooding emotions rushing through her body. He’s alive, seemingly well - at least physically - got all his limbs and all his internal organs on the inside. Her hands are shaking as she retreats into the parlour, the adrenaline that fueled her afternoon finally packing up and leaving her system. Her lips tremble. Jack follows her inside, weary and self-conscious, and she nearly laughs at his semi-guilty expression. It’s probably hysteria.

“Phryne?” he asks hesitantly and closes the parlour doors behind them. It’s a smart move on his part - good thinking - she’s not in the right state of mind to do much of that at the moment. 

She’s vaguely aware of filtered noises behind the closed doors. Dot has woken up and Mr Butler is ushering her into the kitchen, no doubt armed with a stiff cup of tea and some scones. Phryne’s knows that she should probably inquire after Hugh, should ask of the state of Jack’s other lads, but she can’t seem to tear her eyes from his handsome, vital face.

He’s alive - alive, alive. _Alive_.

Phryne lunges at him, knocking him backwards, her fingers digging into the lapels of his jacket. She shoves him against the door, swallows the strangled ‘oof’ tumbling from his lips at the impact, bites his lower lip for entry, slides her tongue into his mouth. She’s wild and ecstatic, relieved beyond measure, nearly delirious at the hasty thrum of Jack’s pulse underneath her fingers as she ghosts them over his neck. He seems to revive under the onslaught, groans into her mouth, pulls her flush against him. She can feel his erection pressing into her belly, her own desire for him almost painful in its intensity.

“Jack,” she gasps against his lips, “you’re alive.”

It’s a somewhat redundant statement, but she’s certain he won’t fault her for a little verbal reassurance.

Jack releases her and kisses her forehead. 

“I am, and so are the rest of my lads,” he exhales, and Phryne can feel his breath on her ear. “It was such a bloodbath, Phryne.”

“Why didn’t you call?” she asks, mortified at the slight tremor in her voice. He pulls her to him again, lowers his lips to her neck.

“I was stuck at Russell Street all day, then I went to the hospital. One of my men got banged up pretty badly - not Collins!” he hastens to say when she jerks in his arms. Phryne sags against his chest in relief. “It’s Jenkins. He’s going to pull through, but it’ll take some time. Then I came here, only to be assaulted.”

Phryne shoves him mockingly at the words, and he stumbles backwards, clutching at his chest dramatically. She has to swallow the laughter bubbling up in her throat.

“I don’t recall you objecting much, Inspector,” she says slyly, instead.

Jack’s eyes are burning as he regards her seriously, previous comical nonsense forgotten. 

“No,” he concedes, his voice a low, throaty rumble. “No objections here, Miss Fisher.”

She wants to eat him alive, to strip him of all his layers till he's bare before her - in more ways than one - she wants to writhe above him and take him into her body and keep him in her heart.

“Have you heard about ‘glad you’re not dead’ sex, Jack?” she quips, her fingers playing with the buttons on the front of her blouse.

Jack’s eyes stray downwards for a swift second before he fixes them back on her face.

“Can’t say that I have, Miss Fisher,” he delivers dryly, the corner of his generous mouth inching upwards. “Is it some sort of cocktail?” 

She almost laughs again but manages to smother the amusement before it breaks out of her throat. This ever-going dance between them mustn’t be interrupted.

“Would you like me to show you?” 

His eyes flash with desire, mirth, fondness; his lips quirk. He’s diverted and wanting, and Phryne finds it the best combination in the world. He looks into her eyes, blinking slowly.

“More than anything.”

There’s a raid.

It’s ugly and dangerous and full of blood and spilling guts and gunpowder.

But he’s alive.


	12. Soft as Cotton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the kiss prompt: 12. soft kiss or 29. butterfly kisses/peppering kisses.
> 
> Decided to go with both!

His kisses are soft as cotton in the faint morning light. Warm, lazy lips dance over her skin, peppering her pulse points and jaw with ghost-like imprints of devotion. His breath is hot on her flesh, the trail of his tongue cool and pleasant, the ease of his fingers as they slide down her hip maddening with lust.

She is not a morning person, but she finds herself besotted when he rouses her in this fashion, unhurried and lethargic, full of uncharacteristic indulgence, laden with an almost religious level of worship. It’s a heady sensation, being beatified like this, by a man who sees her just as she is.

She turns into him, moulds against him, welcomes him into her body, climbs and falls with him as they move slow and close - like a waltz, always like a waltz, even when they tango. 

And when they lie entwined, and the sun climbs higher in the heavens, and it’s time for him to rise and face the underbelly of Melbourne, she presses her lips to the corner of his mouth.

And her kisses are soft as cotton.


	13. Speed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [ParticularFavorite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Particularfavorite) who asked for no' 38 (cop/person who's getting a ticket) on the AU list!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my undying thanks to the one and the only [Aurora_Australis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_australis/gifts) who decided to take on for the team! Thanks for taking a looksie, babe!

His phone rings just as he’s about to nod off over a particularly boring report. It’s the driest witness statement he’s ever had the misfortune to read, and the hour is getting late, but his in-tray is overflowing, and he’s got to set an example.

The shrill tones of his office phone alert him to the incoming call and he picks up the receiver with no small amount of relief.

“Detective Inspector Jack Robinson.”

“Jack, it’s me! Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long – I’m just calling to ask about the badge.”

Jack rolls his eyes towards his ceiling and sighs inwardly. Boring report, overflowing in-tray, and now Phryne Fisher. He’s never getting home.

“Phryne, for the last time - you’re not getting one,” he groans, his tone suffering. “You’re not _actually_ a police officer, remember?”

“Vividly,” she delivers dryly, but he can hear the smile in her voice. It sounds wicked, smug – _naughty_. “But I _am_ a consultant; don’t I get a certificate or…something?”

Warning sirens start to go off like bombs in Jack’s head, and he narrows his eyes at the phone in contemplative suspicion.

“Why the sudden interest in badges and certificates, Miss Fisher?” he asks conversationally. She’s hiding something, he’s sure of it; the swift silence that follows the question is quite telling.

“No reason!” she answers shrilly and Jack almost crows in triumph. He _knew_ there was something!

“Come on, then,” he sighs, resigned. “Spit it out.”

“I never do, Jack; as well you know…”

“Phryne.”

“Oh, all right! I got a speeding ticket… But I was chasing a suspect, Jack! It’s not my fault the Victoria Police Force doesn’t issue sirens to its civilian consultants!”

Jack closes his eyes and leans backwards in his office chair. He mustn’t lash out; he must remain cool and collected. _Slow, calming breaths_ _– in and out, in and out – there, that should do it._

“How fast were you going?” he asks almost serenely. Jack Robinson is zen. Jack Robinson is a man in control of his emotions. Jack Robinson is -

“Oh, not much… twenty over the limit…?”

Jack Robinson is pissed off.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaims into the receiver, not even remotely trying to control his temper anymore. “I can’t dismiss your ticket, Phryne. You’re going to have to pay the fine!”

He can practically hear her rolling her eyes over the line.

“Oh, don’t be daft!” she bristles. ”Of course I’m paying it! But – you know - a badge or some sort of a certificate would definitely come in handy in the future…”

Impossible woman.

“Goodbye, Phryne, “he intones hollowly; there’s a migraine in his future, he’s sure of it.

“Jack, wait!”

“ _What_?”

There’s some hesitation in the sudden silence on her end, and he can’t help but soften and sigh. “What, Phryne?”

“Will you… come by, later?” she asks quietly, clearly unsure of his answer.

Jack casts a quick glance at his overflowing in-tray and purses his lips. The prudent thing to do would be to refuse her invitation and carry on with his original plan, but he’s not seen her in a few days and the desire to take her in his arms and kiss her threatens to overpower him.

Oh, fuck it.

“Yes, I’ll come.”

He realises his slip of the tongue when she laughs huskily in his ear, the sound sending shivers down his spine.

“I reckon we both will, Jack.” She purrs and he stiffens. Quite literally.

Impossible woman.

* * *

She encourages him to go _faster, faster, faster –_ her oxblood lips moist against his skin, one thigh quivering over his shoulder. She’s tight and hot and wet - and wild; so, so, so – his confiscated ceremonial jacket, the one she wore to greet him at the door when he arrived, open wide now to reveal the blushing skin of her small breasts. He’s going to come, he can feel it, and the sight of her beneath him as they fuck is not really helping matters, so he bites down on his lower lip and thinks hard about footy matches and Collins’ socks after a vigorous workout. He’d like to think that chivalry isn’t dead; after all, ladies first.

She comes hard and fast, shaking and gasping, her fingers tight on his arms and in his hair, and he follows her not-so-little death into blissful oblivion that lasts a good ten seconds longer than he’s used to. They breathe and sigh and lie together, sweat cooling on their heated bodies, locked muscles easing into lethargy and sloth.

Phryne’s the first to come to. She stretches and yawns, and turns into him, her fingers drawing patterns against the slick skin of his chest.

“Excuse me, Sir,” she purrs, her oxblood smile wicked and downright wolfish, “but do you know how fast you were going?”

Jack’s still panting, barely catching his breath; his answering smile is wide and ecstatic. This woman will be the death of him someday. He can’t be bothered to care.

“I can only imagine, Officer,” he replies and pinches her bottom; she squeals in delight,” but perhaps we can sort this out? Just you and me? There must be _something_ I can do for you…”

She turns on her stomach and leans over to plant a kiss to the corner of his mouth. The glint in her eyes means trouble with a capital T.

“Well…” she murmurs, her artistic fingers trailing downwards. “There _is_ something I want…”

“You’re not getting a badge, Phryne.”

She has the audacity to wink at him.

Impossible woman.


	14. Exposed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For prompt no' 31 on the au prompt list - Prostitute/client au.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to my darling [Becs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moreofawaltz/pseuds/becs) for reading this!

It’s supposed to be a rather straightforward undercover operation. She’s chosen for her uncanny ability to pull off posh and entitled, he’s chosen for his exceptionally fit arse. Both are selected from a pool of highly trained detectives for their remarkable operative skills. 

They meet at a sleazy hotel that caters to wealthy women who are looking for a well-paid thrill; he’s dressed in a tight suit that screams ‘elite escort’, she’s clad in a fancy number from one of the priciest boutiques in the city. They share a drink or two and head up to one of the rooms on the third floor.

He’s the supposed target – somebody’s been violating and killing off the escorts working in this ‘fine’ establishment, and they suspect one of the staff – she’s there to make it all look believable enough. They’re wired and taped, earpieces firmly in place, and it should really feel rather mechanical, if not for the unfortunate fact that he’s completely in love with her and cannot control the tremor in his hands or the quickness of his breath.

She sits on the round table – positioned just right for the security camera to catch the whole thing – and spreads her thighs. He comes closer, hikes up her expensive dress, removes her knickers; there’s another tiny pair hiding underneath, to protect her modesty, but his trembling fingers still brush against the edge of her cunt and the skin of her naked thigh, and they both gasp in a way that has nothing to do with acting.

‘ _Make it count, Jack’,_ she whispers in his ear as she unzips his trousers and pushes them down his muscled thighs. The jacket he’s still wearing is hiding the upper knot on his beige-coloured modesty G-string rather conveniently, staying somewhat in place even as he simulates some very vigorous thrusts. He kisses her deeply – truly – his tongue hot in her mouth, her teeth bruising his lips. They’re both moaning obscenely, gasping enough profanities and filth to make this look and sound like the lewd dalliance it’s supposed to be.

He can’t help getting hard, not when she’s moving against him so genuinely; the heel of her pump biting into the flesh of his arse, her cries ringing in his ears. A prolonged touch, a jerky movement, makes her freeze and breathe heavily against his jaw, and he leans over to whisper his apologies at the lack of control. Her lips are hot and moist near the shell of his ear as she reaches between them for a moment, then smooths the same hand down his cheek. There’s wetness on her fingers as she whispers, ‘ _So am I’_ , and he bites his lower lip to the point of drawing blood to distract his body from the implications of their shared arousal. The feel of her against him, the lingering scent of her on his skin – he’s a dead man walking, but there’s no regret; he longs for the oblivion of this version of death.

When it’s all ‘over’, she leaves to rejoin their team, and he’s left to his own devices. He changes out of his suit, dons casual clothes and takes off on foot, hoping to lure the killer out of hiding. He keeps his head free of all thoughts, his attention focused on the hunt; he’s on a mission – first and foremost – nothing else matters now. When he turns left into a dark alley on his supposed way home, he can hear footstep behind him.

It doesn’t take much – he’s a trained professional, after all – a jab, a kick, a twist of the arm, and the assailant is lying face-first on the ground, cursing up a storm and shouting. It’s the hotel’s head of security; he had a thing for pretty men and access to all cameras and keys, making it exceptionally easy for him to find his victims. Jack’s team arrives at the scene and they take the bastard into custody, reading him his bloody rights; Jack rips the wires off his body and hands them to his sergeant. He can’t go back to the station in this state, not with her scent still on his skin, not with the ghost of her touch on his body.

He’s still in his towel, hair wet and unkempt, when there’s pounding on his door; she’s trembling on his doorstep, face pale and worried. She must have heard the arrest take place.

 _‘Are you alright, Phryne?’_ , he asks; ‘ _No, no_ ,’ she mutters, and then they’re kissing – desperately, wildly, as if they’re dying and living and falling – and there’s gasping and grasping, and dropped towels and spread thighs. They’re on a table again – his kitchen counter is sturdy enough – only this time, he’s inside her; deep and close and surprisingly slow. They should be frantic, fucking like it’s apocalypse now and nothing else matters, except that they’re not.

She cries his name in his ear when she comes – flushed and shaking, eyes shut tight, mouth parted – and he’s not far behind, his face buried in the crook of her neck. She holds him close as he spends inside her, her fingers buried in his hair, lips hot on his skin. There’s nothing between them now, no easy banter and heavy flirting. She should say, ‘ _I came to get my money’s worth, Inspector’_ , he should answer ‘ _I hope you got a good deal, Miss Fisher_ ’, but they remain mute, their hands and lips doing the talking this once.

They lie entwined in his bed in the late hours of the night, chasing sleep like they chased completion, eyes heavy but hearts light.

‘ _I was worried_ ,’ she admits quietly when she thinks him asleep.

It’s supposed to be a rather straightforward undercover operation.

Except it wasn’t.


	15. Words, Words, Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the au prompts on Tumblr - Librarian/ Avid reader au.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta for this one, we die like illiterate men.
> 
> Title goes to Shakespeare (Hamlet, the little shit).

“Ooo, he’s here again – second day in a row; that’s a record!”

Phryne squints at the catalogue number on the spine of a massive tome on eastern husbandry – something about yak-rearing in Tibet – and huffs; she bloody hates the new cataloguing system and its needlessly intricate design.

“Who is, Dot?” she asks noncommittally, not even bothering to lift her head from the offending book. Seriously, it’s going to take her bloody ages to get used to this new system!

“Your dour subscriber no’ 6478! He’s back, and he’s not wearing a suit, for a change!”

Phryne’s head shots up fast enough to pull a muscle, and she winces, cursing softly. Dot sniggers and rolls her lips together as her colleague massages the smarting area and glares at her in mild annoyance.

“Surely you mean my incredibly _fit_ subscriber no’ 6478, Dot dear,” Phryne smiles smugly and chances a glance at the figure that’s just walked in through the double doors, wearing jeans and a leather jacket, a biking helmet held loosely in his left hand. “Oh, you’re right! He’s deliciously casual today.”

Dot shakes her head and smiles indulgingly.

“You’re hopeless,” she mutters, and Phryne shrugs.

“I look for joy in all the dark places, Dot,” she whispers and winks, “and speaking of – has maintenance been to change the lightbulb in Isle 39? You can barely see the books!”

Some days it just seems like the entire building is crumbling down around them.

Dot reaches for the phone, efficiency mode activated.

“I’m on it,” she says, nodding towards the entrance, “and, heads up - 6478 is coming your way.”

Phryne lifts her eyes above the counter just in time to greet the ridiculously attractive man.

“Mr Robinson!”

“Miss Fisher.”

He’s leaning on the counter, his mouth set in a slight twist – a maddening, enigmatic half-smile – as if he’s in on some outrageously clever joke that nobody’s aware of. Phryne returns the lip quirk; she’s rather convinced she’s in on the joke, too.

“Back so soon! Even you can’t read a week’s worth of books in one night!”

The half-smile quirks upwards and scrunches the man’s nose in the most adorable way; Phryne’s smile turns a little wicked. Well, there’s no escaping it now – she’d have to seduce him.

“Oh, no, I’m nowhere done,” he explains, leaning a little closer. “It’s my day off, you see – “

“And you decided to spend it in the library…?”

The man spreads his hands, shrugging in a self-deprecating way that makes Phryne a little hot under the collar.

“Well, where else?” he asks in his deep, husky voice. “Books are like portals to other worlds. I could be visiting the Shire, Ankh-Morpork, Lyme, Verona, without even getting off my ridiculously lumpy sofa in Melbourne.”

That does it; she might have to seduce him in the back office _right now._

“How very true,” she purrs delightedly and notes in great satisfaction how the man appears to colour a little at her praise. “And what is it that you do, Mr Robinson? No, wait, don’t tell me – I enjoy a good mystery – you’re an English professor, or, rather, a writer...?”

The self-deprecating smile strikes again, and Phryne finds her day improving considerably. Sod the new cataloguing system, nothing can ruin her good mood now. 

“Nothing so romantic, I’m afraid,” he says, reaching into his inner jacket pocket. “I’m a detective inspector, homicide. See?”

He hands her his warrant card, and she flips it open, inspecting it carefully.

“ _Senior_ Detective Inspector Jack Robinson.”

“Guilty as charged,” he confirms, retrieving his card and pocketing it. “And you might as well call me Jack. Everyone else does.”

Oh, he’s a delight.

“Very well, _Jack_ ,” she replies, grinning, “then I’m Phryne, and this lovely lady to my right is Dot Williams.”

The man with the face that launched a thousand fainting fits nods in the direction of her assistant.

“Miss Williams.”

Dot’s cheeks bloom at the oddly endearing old-fashioned address, and she acknowledges the man with a soft smile. “Nice to meet you, Inspector.”

Sensing a lull in the conversation, Phryne shoves the yak-rearing tome out of the way and rises from her seat. She notes that the Inspector’s – _Jack’s_ – lovely blue eyes widen a little at the sudden gesture. Smiling reassuringly, she crosses her arms and leans over the counter, her face just a few centimetres away from his. He does not move away.

Oh, but he’s going to be fun.

“So, what can I help you with, _Jack_?” she asks suggestively, delighting in the man’s flushed cheeks. Really, he should probably go ahead and arrest himself; it must be illegal to be this delicious in public.

“W-well,” he stammers a little, clearly thrown by her obvious flirting, “I’m looking for a book about Eastern erotic art, and I was hoping you could… recommend a title?”

Well, this day just keeps getting better and better. She must have done something right in her previous life.

“We have some fascinating books on the subject, Jack,” she purrs, reaching for her notepad and a pencil. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

“Anything by Yanagawa or Hokusai would be perfect,” he supplies without batting an eyelash, and Phryne’s mouth drops open. Jack smiles that maddening self-deprecating smile and rubs the back of his neck with long – and probably very dexterous – fingers.

“You’re not used to coppers who have more than half a brain cell, are you, Miss Fisher?”

Okay, mind changed; she might have to seduce him right now on this very counter.

“I must say it does go against the stereotype, Inspector.”

His lips curve downwards just a tad in that odd half-smile of his; his eyes glint almost mischievously.

“It’d be a tactical error to think you had me pegged just yet, Miss Fisher.”

She tries to smother her laughter as he arches one eyebrow in challenge.

“This sounds a lot like an invitation, Jack,” she chuckles. After all, it takes two to waltz, and she can give as good as she gets.

The half-smile stays in place, but the man leans backwards, keeping most of his space to himself.

“The books, Miss Fisher…?” he asks and nods towards the isles. “Am I ever going to get my recommendation?”

Cheeky bastard. She likes him already.

“You will if you call me Phryne,” she challenges, scribbling something down on the entirely forgotten notepad.

“Alright, Phryne.”

She shivers a little at the way his voice dips at the end of her name, and she briefly wonders how it will sound falling from those generous lips in passion. She vows to find out soon enough.

“Here,” she says, thrusting the little yellow piece of paper into his large hand. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

Jack squints at the scribble on the tiny paper and frowns.

“Damn, I can’t make this out,” he mutters, patting down his jacket. “Hang on….”

Phryne nearly chokes on her tongue when he produces a pair of reading glasses and smiles embarrassedly at her.

“Not even forty and already farsighted as a bat,” he laments, smiling. “Very ‘old man’ chic, I know…”

She tries not to drool all over the counter in answer. It could be considered bad manners.

“I think it suits you,” she croaks, instead. There; much better.

“Mhmm,” he acknowledges the compliment with another arched eyebrow and lowers his head to regard the paper in his hands once again. “Um…what’s this? It doesn’t look like a serial number…”

“It’s not.”

He looks up at her, and his eyes are unreadable, but the flush is back in his cheeks. Honestly, she considers this a win.

“That’s _my_ number, Jack,” she adds, smiling a little smugly now that the small twist in his lips is back online. “If you want a proper recommendation, you should call it. I have a rather large collection of books on eastern erotica… in my personal library back at home. I’m sure a scholarly bloke like yourself would be in the perfect position to appreciate them properly.”

Phryne can hear Dot choking on her tea to her right, one sideways glance confirming her frantically wiping at the liquid coming out of her nose. Jack produces a tissue paper out of his pocket and offers it to the poor girl.

An officer _and_ a gentleman. Well, well.

“Never let it be said that I turned down the opportunity to expand my horizons,” he quips and pockets the little note. “I hope you have comfortable chairs in your personal library, Miss Fisher. I’m quite the thorough reader.”

Phryne suddenly finds it very hard to scold him for his stubborn objection to using her first name. There’s something to be said for formality; that something is positively filthy.

“I do appreciate a man who takes his time.”

Another little twist of his upper lip, and he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans. This short interview is clearly over.

“G’day, Phryne,” he says with some finality and turns to nod at Dot. “Miss Williams.”

Both women smile at him. “Jack.”

When he leaves, Phryne lowers herself back into her seat and sighs contentedly. Dot shakes her head and mutters something unintelligible under her nose. The lightbulb in Isle 39 flickers back to life.

He calls her ten minutes later.

She seduces him in her very comfortable library chair.

He’s very thorough.


	16. Clay Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the au prompt list, no' 19 (parents meeting when they bring their kid to class).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eternally grateful thanks to my Aussie friends [Moreofawaltz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moreofawaltz/pseuds/moreofawaltz) and [Sonicwaffles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonicwaffles/pseuds/sonicwaffles) who suggest all the lovely ideas and keep me from completely embarrassing myself!

1\. They meet at a pottery class, of all places. _They’re_ not the ones taking it, of course, they’re just the designated drivers of two thirteen-year-old girls with way too much time on their hands and a penchant for poorly made ceramic crockery. They sit on the same bench outside of the little studio, impeccably dressed for the chauffeurs that they are; she’s wearing a lovely number by Armani, he’s clad in a fitting suit and blue tie that complements his lovely eyes.

“You must be Jane’s mum,” he says, offering his hand. She takes it.

“Godmother, actually,” she corrects, smiling. His hand is warm and large in her cool one, “But I am raising her. No regrets, of course.”

“Of course,” he nods, and offers her a little smile. She’s struck by how this slight twist of his mouth completely transforms his face. “I’m Jack Robinson, by the way; Ruth’s dad.”

“I figured,” she says, winking. “Phryne Fisher.”

And that’s that.

2\. He brings her coffee and a finger bun for the next class, and they settle down to wait, consuming their treat in companionable chatter. They talk about their work - she’s a solicitor, he’s a homicide detective - and of the daughters they’re raising on their own. He lost his wife to cancer a few years back; she’s taken over parent-duties after a rather gruesome car crash claimed the lives of her friends and left their daughter alone in the world. Neither one regrets their lot in life.

“So,” he asks as she’s licking sticky pink icing off her fingertips, and his voice dips low enough to make her shiver, “do you think we’re at least getting a formless mug or a useless ashtray out of this chauffeur duty?”

She drops her paper bag and disposable cup into the bin and grins at him.

“I don’t know about you, but I’ve ordered a vase.” 

Her spine tingles pleasantly at the sound of his laughter.

3\. He asks her out when next they meet, and she readily accepts his invitation. They have to endure Jane and Ruth’s excited giggles and loud whisperings all the way back to their cars, but she’s strangely alright with that. She unexpectedly finds that she’s rather giddy herself - this is a state of mind she’s unused to - but the fluttering in her stomach at the thought of his lovely eyes creasing a little with his smile at her acceptance eases the anxiety away.

He takes her to Luna Park, and she thinks she might love him. There are rides and treats and a fair amount of laughter, and she can’t recall the last time she’s had so much fun with a man that did not include a bed and penetration. He takes her home at the end of the evening and kisses her rather respectfully on the cheek; she pulls him towards her by his jacket and sticks her tongue down his throat in retaliation.

4\. The sex is phenomenal; there is laughter, and acrobatics, and so many orgasms that she loses count very early on in their budding relationship. They sneak around like teenagers and fuck on every surface available to them as they try to keep quiet and not scar the girls for life. 

He tells her he loves her first, and to her great surprise, she finds it very easy to reciprocate his feelings - especially when she lies sated in his arms, her body tingling in the most delicious of ways. 

5\. They move in together after a few months of back and forth lovemaking and sleepovers, succumbing to the inevitable and the sly glances of their daughters. It’s a good, never-ending ride, and she finds herself almost criminally happy, and not at all afraid.

“What are you thinking about?” he whispers one night, as they lie entwined post a vigorous fucking session that leaves them breathless for a good few minutes, their bodies sweaty and tired.

She stretches against him and kisses his jaw, burying her face in the crook of his neck.

“That I’m very glad I signed Jane up for pottery lessons,” she sighs against his skin, and smiles as his arm tightens around her ribs.

6\. They get two formless mugs and one rather ugly vase out of this chauffeur duty. 


	17. Knock Knock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the au prompt ask, no' 28 (getting the wrong door by accident au).

She’s hanging a recently acquired Modigliani above the mantlepiece in her parlour when the doorbell rings loud enough to wake the dead. It’s rather early for a morning call – just shy of nine in the morning – and she’s not expecting any deliveries; she’s not had the chance to order much since she arrived. A fleeting, almost naughty thought about ignoring the door crosses her mind – after all, nine am is practically the crack of dawn - but whoever seeks admission to her humble abode becomes impatient and starts pounding on the door.

With a frown and decidedly negative opinion about the person awaiting her on the threshold, she makes her increasingly livid way to the door, wrenches it open forcefully – and stops short.

Standing on the doorstep, dressed in a fitting suit of dark grey wool and maroon tie, stands one of the loveliest men she’s had the misfortune to encounter before noon. He’s grave and almost sullen-looking, his face all angles and smooth skin, eyes bright and focused, and she finds herself leaning in the doorway and smiling pleasantly. Perhaps this is her lucky day.

“Good morning,” she says politely, “how may I help you?”

She’s got some rather colourful ideas.

“Madam, I’m Detective Inspector Jack Robinson,” the man says solemnly, flashing his warrant card in her face. “May we come in?”

Startled by his words, she looks over the man’s shoulder and realises for the first time that he’s accompanied by another officer. This one is younger and in uniform; a senior constable, judging by his insignia. He’s smiling amicably at her in greeting, his handsome face open and sincere; in another life, she thinks, she’d have had great fun corrupting him.

“What’s this about, Inspector?” She asks, smiling at the constable and noting with great delight that he seems to flush rather vividly at her attention. Now, if only she could make the dour inspector blush prettily as well…

“May we come in?” the man in question repeats, getting a little impatient, and she almost crows in glee. Well, if that’s not an invitation to be difficult, she doesn’t know what is.

“I’d rather not,” she sighs, shrugging against the doorjamb, “the house is a mess, you see.”

She can tell the very second the Inspector loses his cool with her; his generous mouth thins to an irked line and he jams his hands into his trouser pockets. She’s delighted.

“Very well, Madam,” he says in a clipped tone that sends some rather inappropriate shivers down her spine, “I regret to inform you that your husband has been found dead this morning.”

Well, she certainly did not expect _that_.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she offers, her tone even and calm. “I wish I had the chance to have known him before he died.”

The Inspector’s face turns blank; behind him, his constable’s mouth drops open.

“I…what?”

“I don’t have a husband, Inspector,” she explains, taking pity on the two men.

She can hear the constable gulping nervously. The Inspector reaches into his suit pocket and produces a notepad; frowning deeply – and very attractively – he scrutinizes his notes.

“Are you not Amelia Northman? Of 221A?”

Oh, _oh;_ poor man. This must not be his day.

“Afraid not…” she replies sympathetically. “I’m Phryne Fisher of 221B and I’m quite decidedly single, Inspector.”

As hints go, this is rather a massive one; somewhere high on the titanic scale.

She can see the exact moment that the handsome inspector curses rather strongly in his head, his jaw clenching and eyes pinching. Behind him, his constable blenches and sways a little on his feet. He must have been the one to obtain her address for his boss. 

“Oh, we must have gotten the wrong house…” the inspector says, pocketing his notes, and looking sufficiently apologetic. “I’m terribly sorry to have wasted your time, Miss Fisher.”

They mean to leave, and she finds herself reluctant to part with the handsome men and the provided entertainment. She is a woman alone, newly arrived in town, after all.

“Was it murder?” she asks, trying hard not to sound too eager.

To her utter delight, the Inspector’s lips twist at one corner in what probably appears like a muscle spasm to most, but she suspects is a sort of a smile.

“Good morning, Miss Fisher,” he replies pleasantly and turns around, barking instructions at his still rather pale constable, who glances at her with a somewhat sickly farewell smile.

Once they’re gone, she heads for the kitchen and prepares a steaming cup of tea for herself and takes it with her to the veranda at the front of her house. She breathes the salty sea breeze in and sighs in utter contentment. It shouldn’t take long now; she can hear wailing from the adjacent house.

Soon enough, she can see the policemen heading towards their car, about to pass her little red gate.

“How did she take it?” she calls out and takes a calculated, long sip of scalding tea.

The cops stop in their tracks and regard her for a moment, then the Inspector leans to speak quietly to the constable. The young man nods exuberantly and walks away, while the senior officer opens the gate and comes up the path, stopping right in front of her.

“Your standard weeping widow?” she inquires dryly when he says nothing at all.

The inspector shoves his hands in his pockets again and shrugs noncommitting, his lips inching downwards.

“As standard as they come,” he replies, his tone giving nothing away. Well, she’s shrewder than that.

“But you’re not convinced.”

He narrows his eyes at her, seemingly annoyed with her butting curiosity and interference, but she can tell from the glint in his eyes that she’s piqued his interest.

“Would you like some tea?” she tries her luck. “I have biscuits – fresh from the bakery down the road.”

“I’m on duty, Miss Fisher,” he admonishes her, but she can tell from his momentarily widening eyes at her mention of baked goods, that he’s more than interested to linger in her company.

“Surely you need to question me, Inspector?” she tries again, aiming for a soft, decided push. “As a neighbour, I might be a witness, after all.”

He perks up at that and takes a step backwards as she rises to stand.

“How long have you been living here?” he asks her as she gathers her tea things and heads inside. She’s delighted to discover him following her to the kitchen.

“A week,” she says and dumps the cup in the sink.

He gives her an exasperated look as she takes two fresh mugs out of a cupboard and turns the kettle on.

“I’m very perceptive, Inspector, as I’m sure you’ll find,” she explains, and plates some biscuits. “I’ve got a good eye for details.”

“Have you, now,” he indulges her as he settles into one of the wooden chairs and relaxes. She takes a good look at his hands.

“I do,” she confirms, pouring hot water into the ready mugs and sliding one towards him. He accepts the steaming cup with a nod of thanks. “For example, I can tell that you’re divorced.”

He nearly spills the tea down his trousers and chokes on a biscuit.

“H-how…?” he coughs, and she nods towards his left hand.

“You’re not wearing a ring, but there’s a soft tan line where a ring _should_ be…it’s very recent, isn’t it?”

He sighs and fiddles with his spoon.

“A few months,” he confirms reluctantly.

Well, well; lucky her.

“See? An eye for details – and Amelia Northman hated her husband. They had rows that would keep the entire neighbourhood awake at night, and she had a battalion of lovers.”

His lips twist in something akin to grudging admiration.

“Learned all that from a week’s stay, have you?”

She shrugs in fake nonchalance, but her blood is boiling. This – him – it’s all going to be so much fun.

“Eye for details, remember?” she almost purrs and leans with her elbows over the table. “How about you come tonight, and I’ll tell you all about it? I may have some insights relevant to the case. Perhaps some supper for potential information, Inspector Robinson?”

He’s definitely smiling now, and he tries to make it look as if he’s exasperated with her, but she knows better; she’s caught his interest, and he’s intrigued. Well, she can work with that.

“Call me Jack,” he says instead of answering, “everybody else does.”

“Then you must call me Phryne,” she simpers as he rises from his seat. He takes his mug to the sink and rinses out the tea, then he reaches inside his suit jacket and produces a card. She takes it from his fingers and twirls it a little in front of his face. He smiles again.

“Thank you for the tea, Miss Fisher,” he says politely and bows his head a little, and she finds this little gesture and his reluctance to address her informally rather endearing.

“Jack,” she acknowledges and sees him to the door, smiling almost wolfishly at his retreating back.

Yes, this is all going to be so much fun.


	18. Comeback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the au prompt list - no' 48 (highschool reunion au).   
> Rosie/Jack (divorced + friendship).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so... this did not turn up as I planned. It started writing itself at some point and the ghosts of past angst demanded their tribute. 
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, the darling [Moreofawaltz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moreofawaltz/pseuds/moreofawaltz) who has to endure all my Aussie-related questions on a regular basis. Thank you for bearing with me, babe!

He orders Shepperd’s pie and coffee under the fond inspection of his ex-wife. It’s been a long day at work; chasing a murder suspect for breakfast, filling out paperwork for brunch. He’s tired and famished, and just about done with this bloody day.

“Did you miss lunch again?” Rosie asks when the waitress and menus sail away towards other tables, and he nods, slumping a little in his seat.

“I did, I’ve been too busy to eat.”

“Jack…”

He shakes his head and smiles a little sadly.

“Don’t start, Rosie.”

His ex-wife spreads her palms a little and shrugs, even though he can see her clear reluctance in conceding to his request.

“You’re right,” she says, now fiddling with her napkin. “Not my problem anymore.”

This is rocky ground, turbulence in high altitudes, a fucking storm in an open sea; this is what eventually brought them to separation and divorce. He always worked too much or too hard, she was stubbornly adamant in her belief that he should push for more promotions even though they meant an office job; both were too proud and reluctant to budge even a smidge from their fortified positions. Miscommunication was their stock and trade when they were together. They were just better off as friends.

“Much as I am flattered to be called a problem…” Jack smirks, trying to diffuse the tension.

It works. Rosie snorts and shakes her head, and he feels a sudden rush of relief. He always hated fighting with her.

“Well, you are,” she winks at him and settles back in her seat. “Now, what did you want to discuss, Jack? You sounded rather agitated on the phone. I know it can’t be the Smith case, I’ve handed you those files yesterday; so, what’s up?”

Jack sighs inwardly. The problem with having a crown prosecutor for an ex-wife is that almost every phrase you utter ends up being shrewdly scrutinized. 

“It’s not the Smith case, no,” he admits, reluctantly. “It’s something else. Not work-related.”

Rosie arches her eyebrows in clear interest. Jack drums his fingers on the table in ill-contained tension.

“My high school reunion is coming up,” he says, at last, darting a quick glance at Rosie. He’s surprised to see she’s smiling knowingly.

“Mac told me,” she explains at his widening eyes. “There was much drunken laughter involved.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Of course, there was.”

Their food arrives - or, rather, his food and her coffee – and he digs in with the air of a famished man who’s been denied one meal too many. Rosie laughs fondly and takes a sip of molten caffeine, her eyes crinkling with genuine amusement.

“I’ve no idea how you manage to stay so skinny,” she mutters into her cup and Jack snorts, his mouth full of potatoes and meat.

“Well, it’s not sex that keeps me in shape, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says and swallows, his fork scraping the plate in his haste to scoop another serving.

Rosie leans in, her eyes glinting.

“How long has it been, Jack?” she asks, rather too eagerly for his comfort. He drops the fork and takes a gulp of coffee instead.

“Well, not since we decided to end our little ‘ex-spouses with benefits’ arrangement,” he admits, colouring slightly. Rosie’s eyes widen.

“Jack, that was six months ago!”

He shrugs helplessly.

“What can I tell you, Rosie? I’m not the kind for hook-ups!”

“Well, it’s a damn waste,” she shrugs, “that’s all I’m saying. You’re quite capable in that department.”

He laughs and picks up his fork.

“Ta, love,” he says around a mouthful of Sheppard’s pie.

His plate is clean within minutes, and they decide to order a serving of panna cotta to share. Jack ends up eating most of it, to the hearty encouragement of his ex-wife.

“Well, if it’s not sex that’s keeping you fit…”

Jack sighs and lowers his teaspoon.

“It’s cycling; lots and lots of cycling. Can we drop it, please?”

Rosie smiles almost apologetically and reaches for one of his hands.

“Already dropped,” she offers placatingly, obviously feeling a little chastised. “Now, you were saying something about a reunion?”

“Yes, it’s the twenty-year reunion,” he confirms, linking their fingers together. There’s nothing romantic or sexual about the gesture, and he’s not planning it as such; it’s muscle memory, a habit – a relic from the ruins of a long-lost prospering relationship. “Rosie, I have a favour to ask…”

“Oh, Jack,” she sighs, shaking her head. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea, darling.”

He nods forlornly and looks down at their clasped hands. It doesn’t even occur to him to pull back.

“I know, I just… really don’t want to go alone.”

“Why are you going at all?”

Jack shrugs wearily and rolls his lips together.

“I promised Mac I’d go. I think she wants to rub her medical degree in everyone’s faces.”

Rosie laughs softly and brushes her thumb over his knuckles.

“As well she should.”

Jack pulls away to fiddle with his forgotten teaspoon, and Rosie gathers her abandoned hand into her lap, waiting for him to speak.

“It’s just that I could do without the pitying looks, you know?” he says, at last, pushing his coffee cup and saucer around.

Rosie’s eyebrows climb into her hairline.

“What are you on about, Robinson?” she asks incredulously. “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror recently? There’ll be a queue forming all the way from the car park!”

He barks with laughter so suddenly that his cup shakes, and he has to steady it with both hands. Rosie looks rather pleased with the reaction.

“Be serious, Miss Sanderson,” he regards her with mock-exasperation once he’s sure his cup is safe. “I’m a 38-year-old divorced copper who’s not had a decent fuck in six months. Hardly a catch.”

“You’re an idiot, that’s what you are,” Rosie says, throwing her hands. “You’re a 38-year-old _single homicide detective_ who’s eager to show some very lucky woman a good time. See? Better already!”

He smiles fondly at her, and it’s genuine and affectionate and only a little melancholic.

“I love you, you know,” he says quite simply, and Rosie smiles back.

There’s nothing romantic about the sentiment; much like the handholding and the banter, it’s just the same old muscle memory at this point – nothing but ghosts of feelings in the chambers of his heart. They’re good friends and he will always love her, just not romantically. Not anymore.

“I know,” she replies and blows him a kiss. He makes a show of catching it in the air and pressing it to his chest dramatically. She shakes her head, amused. “Why don’t you go with Mac as your date? You can really mess with people’s heads and tell them you cured her lesbianism with your magic dick; she’d enjoy that!”

Jack throws his head back and laughs, and Rosie has to wipe tears from the corners of her eyes at the proposed image. It takes them some time to stop chortling.

“That’s not a bad idea,” he says, fighting for air. “I’ll tell her it was your suggestion.”

“You’d better,” Rosie challenges and reaches for her bag. “I demand all the gory details, too, of course!”

They split the bill even though he offers to pay; she gives him a levelled look that clearly says, _‘you think?’,_ so he shrugs and just adds a little extra for his pie. They leave the café arm in arm and he walks her to her car.

“You promise to try and have fun?” she asks him as they reach her vehicle. Jack stuffs his hands down his pockets and nods.

“I promise,” he replies, and finds that he actually means it.

Rosie gives him a soft kiss on the lips and gets in her car. Jack watches her drive away until the little blue box she likes to call an automobile disappears from view, then makes his way back to the Station.

He’s tired and just about done with this bloody day, but his heart is lighter and his stomach fuller; thank God for strong coffee and ex-wives.

He fishes his mobile out of his pocket and taps on the tiny digits with his rather large fingers. The person on the other line answers almost instantaneously.

This should be fun.

“Mac? Hi, it’s me. Now, about the reunion – Rosie just had the most brilliant idea…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psssssstttt....
> 
> If you do all your homework, eat all your vegetables and go to sleep at a reasonable hour, I may write a sequel with the _actual_ reunion (and the originally planned Pharck....)
> 
> :P


	19. Forget Me Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Tumblr au prompt list - amnesia au.
> 
> WARNING: ANGST WITH POSITIVE OUTCOME AHEAD.
> 
> There, now you can read :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When [Fire_Sign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign) asks for an amnesia fic, one must deliver the goods (or 'bads', depends how you look at it)! This is definitely the most exhausting retaliation prompt fic I had the misfortune to write, so I hope you enjoy it and don't come after me with pitchforks and torches :D
> 
> I'd say I was sorry, But I'm really not!
> 
> Many thanks to my wonderful betas [Moreofawaltz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moreofawaltz/pseuds/moreofawaltz) and [Aurora_Australis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_australis/pseuds/aurora_australis) for reading this and for sending me crying gifs and telling me I'm evil. It does a girl good to know she's emotionally scarring her friends :D
> 
> Onward with the show!

1.

Life as he knows it ends one cold afternoon in mid-June 1930.

It’s a standard chase after a suspect; a boorish man suspected of killing his wife resists the request to accompany them back to the Station for questioning and flees via the back door and out of sight. They’re hot in pursuit within seconds, feet thudding on wet cobblestones, and she’s ahead of him as she always is, until she isn’t. His shout reverberates off the walls of the narrow alley as he watches her trip and fall; his heart stops for a few precious beats as he sees her head hit the pavement, as he hears the sickening sound of flesh meeting stone.

There’s blood everywhere, and he presses on the wound with his blue silk tie as tightly as he can, as Collins runs in search of a telephone, terrified and pale. He suspects that he’s not looking much better himself, but the thought flees his head rather swiftly in the face of her continued unconsciousness.

She does not stir – not in his arms, not in the ambulance drive en route to the hospital – and he’s left slumped in a wooden chair in the waiting room, crushing his bloody tie in his fingers, while she’s wheeled into surgery. The Collinses join him, the red raggers arrive soon after; somebody pushes tea into his hands - it’s spiked with brandy. Sometime later, Mac emerges from surgery, looking grim.

“She’s stable,” she says, her voice tired.

And that’s that.

2.

The news of her frankly outlandish diagnosis threatens to knock him off-kilter.

Mac – pale, sleepless, grief-stricken Mac – looks at him with worry and despair as he staggers into a vacant seat outside of Phryne’s hospital room.

“What, _nothing_?” he chokes, unable to stop his hands from shaking. The hat he’s holding in his trembling fingers threatens to fall to the pristine white floor at his feet.

“Not nothing, but – look, she thinks it’s September 2nd…”

Jack stares at the doctor, hope spreading in his chest like a festering infection; that’s not too bad - he can work with September, they were on the verge of turning their endless waltz into a torrid tango in September.

“She doesn’t remember leaving for England?” he breathes, his lungs feeling tight and bubbly. “That’s – that’s better than I… It’s only a few months – “

Mac’s hand is heavy on his shoulder, and when he focuses on her bloodshot eyes, he loses his fragile, shaky optimism; Mac is uncertain and apprehensive, and he’s not used to seeing her falter. This can’t be a good sign.

“No, Jack…” she goes as far as using his Christian name; dread fills his belly like lead, like fire, like poison, “she, er… she thinks it’s September 2nd, 1928…”

Months and months of nightcaps and draughts games and lovemaking scatter like dust before Jack’s eyes, carried away by enforced oblivion. Months and months and _months –_ there’s no _them_ in Phryne Fisher’s compromised mind. Are there traces of them in her heart?

“…What?”

“She stepped off the boat not five weeks ago, Jack,” Mac sounds close to utter despair. “That’s what she thinks. And I – I don’t know… I’ve sent for the best specialist in Australia, Phryne can afford it. Jack, I’m … I’m out of my depth here.”

_Months and months and months._

“Can I see her?” he asks wearily; he can’t deal with Mac’s self-announced shortcomings in the psychoanalysis department right now. He’s got enough of shortcomings of his own.

“Yes, yes, “she nods, stuffing her hands in her coat pockets; from the slight twitch in the white material, Jack can see that Mac’s hands are shaking, too. “Just… don’t contradict her – don’t tell her of your history together. We don’t want to aggravate her condition.”

Months and months and months – and nothing to show for it.

“Right,” he says and rises from the seat. “Right.”

Phryne’s sitting up in bed, reading D.H. Lawrence with avid interest, her head bandaged but no less lovely for it. She looks up at the sound of his shuffling feet and smiles brightly.

“Hello, Jack!” she cries enthusiastically at the sight of him. “So nice of you to come and see me. You didn’t have to!”

Three days ago, they were entwined together like vines in her large bed, eager and prospering. Three days ago, he was inside her and she was everywhere, and there was nought but her on his tongue and in his veins. Three days ago, she whispered she loved him in his ear for the very first time, nervous, a little frightened, but sure – so very sure. Three days ago –

“Miss Fisher,” he mutters hoarsely, twisting the rim of his hat in his ice-cold fingers. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

“Right as rain, Inspector!” she winks mischievously, her smile bare and blinding. “A little headache, but nothing that can’t be fixed with the right powder.”

Months and months and months, and yet… they’re nothing but strangers again.

“Do come by for dinner in a few days, Jack,” she says, picking up the discarded book, sitting up a little straighter in her bed. He’s being dismissed, rather unceremoniously. He has no claim on her time; not now, not anymore. Perhaps never again. “Maybe I’ll finally have you pegged!”

Months and months and months.

And that’s that.

3.

The great specialist from Sydney comes and goes, bearing no concrete hope or outcome to offer them. He’s full of advice, though – _give her time, don’t push her, she seems healthy, she might just regain the memories on her own_ – and Jack is full of bitter bile and well-repressed rage.

“We just have to wait, Jack,” Mac offers, rather forlornly. They’re drinking whisky at the morgue out of beakers; he hopes they’ve been cleaned properly beforehand. “If anyone can beat amnesia, it’s Phryne Fisher.”

“Yes, but how long, Mac?” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. They’re on a first-name basis now; they can’t be drinking to Phryne’s lost memories in shared misery and carry on as ‘doctor’ and ‘inspector’.

Mac shrugs and shakes her head.

And that’s that.

4.

She scales walls and jumps through windows and generally does everything in her power to give him apoplexy - all with a smile and a wink and that bloody knife in her garter.

“You should be more careful,” he says weakly, after a particularly vigorous session of midnight rooftop hopping, but she just throws her head back and laughs.

“Now where’s the fun in that, Jack?” she asks, dangling her lovely legs off the edge of his desk.

Two weeks ago, late into a night shift, he kissed her inner thigh and the edge of her silk knickers. Two weeks ago, he pushed her chiffon skirt out of the way and spread her legs and shoved the scattered case files off his desk. Two weeks ago, she gasped his name and writhed under his hand and mouth as she climaxed, knocking the phone to the floor. Two weeks ago -

“You’re not taking this seriously,” he sighs. Fatigue that has very little to do with the hours he’s not spending in the arms of Morpheus drags him under. He’s exhausted and heartsick; he wants to bury his face in the crook of her neck and breathe. His ribs ache with the intensity.

“I told you, I’ve not taken anything seriously since 1918, Jack,” she says, laughing again, and the pain in his chest deepens. He rubs at the spot just above his sternum absentmindedly to make it go away.

Something shifts in Phryne’s face and her features soften.

“Are you alright, Jack?” she asks, gently, her hand coming to rest on his arm. “You look pale.”

There’s genuine worry etched on her face and engraved in her voice, and Jack’s throat clenches. He can’t help but hope that these nursing tendencies shining through are a prelude to something _more._ It’s a fool’s hope, of course, but it’s all he’s got.

“Haven’t had much sleep lately, Miss Fisher – nothing to worry about,” he explains, attempting a smile. He suspects it comes out as more of a grimace.

She’s not convinced, he can see as much, but she does not push him, either. He’s not sure if he’s more relieved or disappointed.

“Well, if you’re sure,” she says quietly, her eyes sceptical.

He tries to smile again, his chest on fire.

“Quite sure, Miss Fisher,” he says, steadily enough.

And that’s that.

5.

_She trembles in his arms. He can taste her on his lips – French perfume and sweat and cunt – he can feel her in his heart and on his skin. She’s writhing beneath him, her thighs pressing into his hips as he moves within her - close, close, close – and she gasps and mewls and moans, her body arching, chest heaving, fingers curling into his muscles. His name on her lips sounds like a plea, a curse, a benediction, and he smiles against her bare teeth in smug elation; she’s his, he’s hers, they’re theirs._

_She cries his name and tightens around him, her body shuddering with the force of her climax, and he almost follows her into bliss. He’s got some fight left in him yet, and he’s confident enough to think that he’ll be able to provide her with another thrill before he succumbs to his own, so he slows his strokes to allow her to recover._

_When she looks up at him, she frowns, and Jack’s entire chest cavity fills with apprehensive dread. This is not the facial expression he expects to grace her lovely features after lovemaking._

_She squints at him suspiciously, the frown deepening; he feels bile rising in his throat. And when she speaks, her voice is devoid of any of its warmth._

_“Who are you?”_

Jack jolts awake, mouth parted in a silent shout, breath stuttering, chest heaving. He’s drenched in sweat, his body cold; there’s nobody else in bed with him. It takes him several long minutes to regulate his breathing, to fall back against the pillows, to admit defeat and just lie and stare at the dark ceiling of his solitary bedroom.

She’s not here – God only knows if she’ll ever be in his bed again - but the phantoms and echoes of her presence are imbedded into the plain cotton sheets. His pillow still smells faintly of her, his body aches with his need for hers. He wishes he could still taste her scent on his fingers.

She’s not here, she’s not here, she’s not here.

And that’s that.

6.

He sees the flowers first.

A tacky display of a dozen red roses that he would never in a hundred years consider bringing her stands proudly in the foyer, cluttering her favourite Noritake vase. The flowers stand so tall that he misses the other signs at first, but Mr Butler’s unease as he relieves him of his coat and Mrs Collins’s suspiciously teary eyes sharpen his detective instincts, and he takes a closer look around.

This time, he spots it immediately. A gentleman’s coat and hat hang off the peg, next to the flowers. Jack nearly drops the case file he’s holding in his hands.

It was a silly venture, stopping by her house on his way to work on the pretext of dropping off some notes about the case, but he couldn’t help himself. He misses her, terribly; the time spent apart and the distance – both emotional and physical – do nothing to abate the ache in his chest and the depth of his feelings for her. The need to see her is stronger than his resolve, more pressing than any objection his mind may come up with; he’s always been drawn to her against his better judgement, it seems.

His eyes land on the hat, and it takes all he has to control the threatening prickle behind his eyelids. In all his conjured scenarios of how this odd condition of hers will end up playing out, he somehow forgot to account for this particular one. Denial, after all, is a mighty tool indeed.

The air is sucked out of his lungs, he feels his knees about to weaken; his stomach hurts and twists in a way that makes him fear losing his breakfast right here on her tiled floor. He needs to get away, he must leave; he cannot possibly face her and her staff now.

“Mr Butler,” he croaks, not taking his eyes off the damned hat. “I just came by to drop off some files for Miss Fisher. Would you please make sure she gets them?”

He can hear Mrs Collins’s sniffles in the background; he can only guess what he’ll see in the kind eyes of Mr Butler if he dared look at him.

“Inspector,” the man replies gently, and Jack looks up despite himself. There’s concern, and sadness, and he thinks he can detect a small dose of pity, too. “Please, let me see you to the parlour. Have you eaten? Can I tempt you with a slice of cake?”

Jack has to smother the hysterical laugh that threatens to erupt from his throat. He cannot think of food now; he doubts he’ll ever eat again.

“I – I don’t think I can stay, Mr Butler,” he stammers honestly. “I think I better head to the Station; you’re very kind – “

“Why, Jack! What a pleasant surprise!”

The sound of her voice echoes in his chest and rolls through his belly like a siren’s call. He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to tear at the sensitive flesh and blinks rapidly to clear his eyes. The sight of her post-coitus, the scent of her sweat – he can barely hold himself together. This must be what perdition feels like.

She descends the stairs in her favourite robe, face fresh, countenance rosy. She’s pleased and well-rested; well serviced, too, by the unmistakable ease in her movements. He should know; he’s been the sole cause of such ease these last few months, after all. He barely registers Mr Butler and Mrs Collins excusing themselves, hardly pays attention to anything but her slow descent. His heart hammers wildly behind his constricting ribs.

“Well, Jack,” she cries jovially when she reaches him, entirely focused on him as if there’s no man waiting for her upstairs, ready to resume his worship at her feet. “What have you got for me?”

Four weeks ago, he was the one to lie in her bed and worship at the altar of her thighs. Four weeks ago, he held her as she shook above him with tremors of well-satiated lust. Four weeks ago, she clung to him as they lay spent, their breathes and hearts slowing concurrently. Four weeks ago –

“Miss Fisher,” he mumbles, unable to look at her for fear of betraying the turmoil in his mind. “I brought you the file for the Herman case. I thought you might want a look.”

She frowns, comes closer, her fingers reaching for his jaw. Jack flinches and takes a step back. He can’t risk being touched by her – not now, not like this, not when he -

“Are you well, Jack?” she asks in avid concern, all good mood forgotten.

He feels like a cad, like an utter bastard. He doesn’t wish to burden her, doesn’t want her to worry. He cannot stand to be the cause of her souring spirits; not when the only thing keeping him sane is seeing her happy and prospering.

“Just allergies, Miss Fisher,” he lies, hoping that the fib will explain the redness of his eyes and nose.

She nods, somewhat unconvinced, but nevertheless reaches for the case file he’s still clutching in his hand; when her fingers accidentally brush his, he barely manages to suppress a sigh and a shudder. They’ve not touched in weeks.

He’s famished, parched – a hermit keeping fast against his will; he’s starved of her, deprived of the feeling of her skin against his, devoid of sharing her heart and deepest secrets. Another man lies in her bed, and it didn’t really matter, before – not when Jack had the privilege of her friendship and intelligent company – but he has nothing now.

He leaves shortly after, claiming a long day at the Station, blaming mountains of paperwork for his hasty retreat. She smiles in concern, tells him to take care of himself, wishes him a pleasant day and even walks him to the door.

“I’m sorry for troubling you,” he says on the doorstep, unable to stop himself in time. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your company.”

“It doesn’t matter, Jack,” she replies earnestly. “Stop by any time you want; you’re always welcome.”

Something moves in his chest, like gears shifting and falling in an opening vault. There’s something in the way she says those words, the way she looks at him – open and sincere – that gives him pause. But he doesn’t dare hope anymore; hope is for fools, and he’s too bright now for such sentiments.

“Miss Fisher,” he concludes and walks away, and it feels too much like the Haynes case, too much like running. Jack’s no coward – wasn’t one back then, either – but he finds it easier to retreat, to regroup, to face her oblivion with better-schooled features. He’ll be ready next time; future coats and hats and men that are not him will be met with stoic acceptance. He’s her friend first, lover second - even if she can’t remember it.

There’s work and heartache and an uncharacteristic lack of appetite, and when Jack staggers home, late that night, he bypasses the kitchen altogether and heads straight for his spirits cabinet. He pours himself a whisky with shaking fingers, spilling a few precious drops on the wooden surface. It’s a present from her, for his 37th birthday - a dusty bottle of single malt scotch that’s been ageing in an oak barrel in the highlands for twenty odd years. It cost her a fortune; he knows.

He does not blame her – how can he – it’s not her fault, none of it is. But his heart tears at the seams and bleeds, broken and beaten, at the thought that another kissed her lips and held her close; that a random man – a dancing partner, perhaps; a Bright Young Thing – was closer to her than he can hope to ever be again.

He downs the whisky in one gulp, stumbles to his bedroom, and falls asleep still fully clothed.

And that’s that.

7.

The nightcap in her parlour feels achingly familiar. The lighting is low, the fire warm; there’s a draughts board on the little table between them, two glasses of wine that almost kiss rim to rim. It’s like before – almost, almost – there’s light in her eyes, and a little fire, and he deems himself in danger and plans for his flight.

She picks up her glass, trails a finger over the wet rim. He finds his eyes straying against his will.

“Tell me, Jack,” she says, her voice quiet. “Are you married? I think I might have asked you something about children, but it’s all a little fuzzy in my mind, I’m afraid.”

He reaches for his own drink, takes a big gulp to stall for some time. She looks at him expectantly.

“Er, no, no,” he stammers and twirls the glass in his hand, forcing an uneasy smile. “Divorced.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, sounding anything but.

“It is what it is.”

The look in her eyes is hot and sultry and his breath catches somewhere between his lungs and his throat. Danger, indeed.

“Why won’t you come to my bed, then?” she purrs, the entire force of her seduction directed at him.

He hesitates. It would be so easy - to succumb, to hold her in his arms again, to love her openly, even for just one night – but he can’t. He would be making love to another woman, and he can’t betray Phryne’s trust like that.

Six weeks ago, he sat in this very parlour, his hand resting on her thigh as they read Rilke together. Six weeks ago, he kissed her forehead as she fell asleep against his chest. Six weeks ago, they dined together, too busy talking to actually eat, until the food turned cold. Six weeks ago -

“There’s a woman,” he begins cautiously, staring into the deep crimson of his drink. “She’s… away. I’m hoping she will come back to me.”

He hears her intake of breath, feels the shift in the air as she leans backwards in her seat.

“You’re a man of honour, Jack,” she says, sincerely, and it hurts, just like it did when she said the words the first time, in his office, a year and a half ago. “Tell me about her?”

He probably shouldn’t, but he can’t stop himself; weeks and weeks of frustration and heartache are pouring out of him and into her. He finds himself telling her of _his_ Phryne, of _her_ , of her bravery and cleverness, of her wit and brilliant sense of humour; he tells her of the generous heart and the sense of loyalty, of the beauty and kindness. She listens to this entire ode fondly, her eyes and features gentle and understanding.

“She sounds lovely, Jack,” she says when he’s done. “I’d love to meet her one day. Does she have a name?”

Her tone is playful, mischievous, but there’s an undercurrent of genuine curiosity that he just can’t help but tease.

“It’s a secret, Miss Fisher.”

She brightens considerably, the idea of the chase setting fire to her veins.

“Oh, you know I like a good mystery, Jack!” she exclaims, leaning forward eagerly, her glass of wine dangling from long, elegant fingers. “I shall just have to discover it for myself!”

There’s hope in his chest now, he’s a fool; it batters at his heart and his stomach, invades his mind and thoughts – he can’t ignore it anymore.

Months and months and months – and there’s a glimmer of _her_ in the Lethe.

“Please do,” he says, voice tight.

And that’s that.

8.

He’s not at all prepared when it happens, one cold afternoon in mid-August 1930.

There’s a pile of paperwork on his desk that requires his immediate attention, but he finds it difficult to concentrate. He’s pretty certain he just read the same bloody sentence for the fifth time. Sighing forlornly, he picks up his pen, ready to correct the dreadful grammar and punctuation of one of his junior constables, when she flies into his office, looking wild and distraught.

“Miss Fisher!” he exclaims, jolting a little in his seat and reeling at the swiftness with which she reaches his side, holding her tightly closed fist in front of his eyes.

“Jack!” she utters, and he suddenly realises that her hand is shaking. He reaches for her wrist gently, notes the quickness of her breath, the way her eyes take stock of his features. There’s something different about her today, almost as if –

He pries her fingers open and stops breathing.

There – _there, there, there_ – at the centre of her bleeding palm lies the swallow broach he gave her but a year ago; the one he pinned on her blouse, the one she took with her to London, the one she’s now clutching so tightly in her fist that it pricked the skin.

He feels her free hand brush his cheek tentatively; looks up to find her eyes glistening and red.

“I – I found it in a little box on my dressing table … and, and when I, when I picked it up, I… oh God, Jack!”

A sound that’s part sob, part laughter spills from his lips before he can clamp them tightly, and he presses his trembling fingers to his mouth.

Two months; two wretched, _wretched_ months, and now –

He realises suddenly that he’s crying – openly, woefully – with no means to control the volume of his sobs. She reaches for him, warm and alive, her hands shaking and chest heaving, and he presses his face into her abdomen, his arms coming to circle her waist.

Phryne kisses his head almost frantically, muttering all sorts of nothings and everythings into his hair, into his ear, and he breaks down in her arms like a routed man.

He clings to her and bawls in a manner he thought was lost to him back in the muddy trenches of France. Perhaps he should feel ashamed of this blatant and horrific exhibition of ill-suppressed emotions, perhaps under different circumstances, he would. His lips are pressed to her frock, tears staining the lovely fabric as he shakes uncontrollably in her arms.

“Oh, Jack,” she gasps, her fingers threading into his perfectly coiffed hair, pressing his face to her belly. “My dear, darling Jack.”

His hands tighten on her hips, his mouth presses kisses to her abdomen, he keeps chanting her name, brokenly, as if drowning. He can feel her body tremble with stifled sobs of her own as she holds him close to her heart. What a pair they must make.

He becomes vaguely aware of external sounds around them – his constables moving about, the drunkards down in the cells singing raucously – of Hugh Collins shuffling his feet and respectfully, quietly closing the door to his office.

None of that matters; not now, perhaps not ever.

Months and months and months – and she’s stable, she’s here, she’s back.

And that’s that.


	20. Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For an anon ask on Tumblr - 'Jack making Phryne squirt for the first time'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, er, I have no idea what this is....
> 
> I chose modern Phrack because it seemed easier. I don't know. This very much E territory. Very much so.
> 
> Carry on, my chums. 
> 
> No beta on this one, we die like illiterate men.

He meets her at the door, full of ardent, amorous intentions; lips hungry, hands eager, body thrumming with desirous resolve. She laughs into his open mouth, melts into his strong embrace. This is definitely a lovely ending to a tiresome day.

“Hello, Jack,” she purrs, dropping her handbag to the floor. “That’s some welcome.”

He hums against her jaw, groans against the graceful column of her neck.

“You were just so damn clever in court today,” he explains huskily to her collarbone. “I couldn’t even focus properly on my testimony.” 

She sighs when his hands creep up her strict skirt, fingers skirting over her stockings, to tug at the rather flimsy material of her knickers.

“You were rather marvellous yourself, Detective Inspector,” she breathes and steps out of the pooled underthings. Her heart is hammering in her throat, her blood reverberating in her veins; heat gathers in her belly. A girl can get used to being ravished like this.

He turns her around - his kisses glide down the nape of her neck - and guides her hands to rest against the door, then lets his ruck her skirt up. She gasps when his fingers find her cunt and she bucks in his arms, but doesn’t break contact with the flat surface at her palms. This is a competition she has no intention of losing, no matter how gracious she can be in defeat.

“This is all I could think about,” he sighs against her skin, “all day. My hands, on you.” 

“Just your hands?” she teases, and he pinches her clit in mock reprimand, making her choke on trapped air. 

“For a start.”

She can hear him fumbling with his trousers, cursing under his breath, and bites her cheek to stop herself from laughing.

“Do you need a hand, Jack?”

He pinches her again and she bucks against him with a jolt.

“No thank you, Miss Fisher,” he mutters, his free hand finally making some progress by the sound of the zip dragging. “I can manage.”

His loose belt and suit trousers are cool and coarse against her bare bottom as he enters her, and she nearly crows at his haste and impatience. She’s never been more grateful for high heels as their hips align, as his other hand slips up her blouse to tear one bra cup downwards and graze a breast.

“Phryne,” he groans and kisses the spot where hair meets nape; she arches backwards, squirming a little, the back of her head hitting his shoulder, her chin jutting upwards in want of a kiss. 

His mouth is hot on hers - eager, ravenous; all teeth and tongue - as he keeps a steady, deep rhythm with his hips and fingers that makes her tremble and tighten. There’s pressure building just below her pubic bone, blooming in her lower belly and spreading roots. There’s a coil winding in her womb - tighter and tighter and tighter still - and her knees start shaking, her toes curling; she’s there, there, _there_ -

They both freeze at the faint sound of moisture hitting the hardwood floor. Jack leans over her shoulder, as much as the position allows, to look downwards, between her spread legs.

“Is that .... did you just -?”

“Er...I think so?”

She briefly entertains the possibility of becoming mortified, before she dismisses the idea with a mental huff. Jack’s a big boy. He can handle a bit of squirting.

He doesn’t disappoint.

“Fuck, Phryne,” he grunts into her ear, his hips resuming movement. “That’s so hot. Do you think you can do it again?” 

She laughs breathlessly and pushes back into him.

“Maybe another time, darling; this is a first for me, Jack.”

He groans into the crook of her neck as he comes, and sags a little against her, both spent and satiated. They breathe together as he slips out of her, as he pulls her to him, and kisses her deeply. 

“We should probably mop the floor,” she snorts when his kisses move to her hair and feels him chuckling in response. “You know, so that nobody slips and falls.” 

“In a minute,” he replies and sighs contentedly. “I’m basking.”

She hums and presses a soft kiss to the base of his throat, making him shiver and tighten his arms around her. A sudden thought makes her grin cheekily. 

“You know, if this is how you greet me when you’ve seen me in court, you should definitely come see me more often.” 

He laughs light-heartedly, his hands gliding down her back to press her bottom.

“I thought you’d never ask, Miss Fisher.”


	21. Landscape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Tumblr 'AU + 5 headcanons' ask - Phrack + Archaeology.

1\. Dr Jack Robinson of The University of Adelaide and Dr Phryne Fisher of the University of Melbourne meet at a Landscape Archaeology conference in Sydney and immediately hit it off. They’re presenting papers at the same seat - _“Landscape and Man: The Role of the Untamed Environment In Society Shaping”_ \- and strike up a conversation just before the lectures start. The Chair, Professor Tobias Butler of Sydney University, gets so engrossed in the discussion, that he misses his mark by five minutes.

2\. He thinks her lecture about soundscaping in relation to prehistoric shelter finding is fascinating, she claims that his lecture on sacred bodies of water is riveting. They exchange email addresses and decide to stay academically in touch. Jack finds her PhD dissertation on _Jstor_ and reads the entire thing - all 543 pages of it - in one night; Phryne searches for his profile on Academia.edu and reads and reviews all his posted articles.

3\. Two months after the conference, Jack travels to Melbourne to visit his mother and asks Phryne out for coffee under the pretext of discussing a future collaboration. She agrees immediately but asks that they make it dinner instead - _a girl’s got to eat, Dr Robinson; I can’t plan on an empty stomach_ \- and suggests a quaint little Italian restaurant for their meeting. It takes him about a week to realise that he’d taken the woman out on a date. 

4\. Six months into their professional acquaintance they finally manage to execute a joint project and co-manage a dig together. Phryne takes her research assistant, Dot Williams, to act as field administrator; Jack takes his TA, Hugh Collins, as area supervisor. The dig lasts six weeks and produces three ground-breaking articles on the evolution of pagan rituals in South Australia; Phryne lasts one night before she sneaks into Jack’s tent. 

5\. It doesn’t take long for Jack to receive an offer from the University of Melbourne; he suspects Phryne’s behind it. Collins decides to follow him, claiming that he’d rather write his PhD at the best University in Australia; Jack studiously refrains from mentioning Miss Williams - it’s not like he’s in any position to be pointing fingers. They move to Melbourne a fortnight before the new semester starts.

Phryne greets him naked in his brand new office on his very first day; the christen the desk. 


	22. In Service

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Tumble 'AU+ 5 Headcanons' ask - role reversal; Jack is the Butler and Mr Butler is the DI

  1. Jack Robinson is an agent with the Secret Service. His unit sends him on an assignment to weed out a foreign spy that managed to infiltrate the higher ranks of the Victorian Police force. In order to locate and eliminate his mark, Agent Robinson is sent to Melbourne, where he finds employment with a rich lady detective who can’t keep her nose out of trouble. She immediately takes him on as her butler, claiming that he’s got a respectable air about him that fits the profession seamlessly. It’s the perfect cover; he makes a killer gratin.



  1. What Jack Robinson doesn’t realise, until he’s left staring into the muzzle of her golden gun, is that the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher is with the Secret Service, too, and seems to take offence at having her room not-so-secretly searched for information. Three tumblers of whisky each and two slices of his Vitoria sponge cake later they decide to start working together. After all, two heads are better than one.



  1. Phryne’s unsuspecting contact at the Victoria Police is one Senior Detective Inspector Tobias Butler, a kind fifty-four-year-old widower with a green thumb and a sweet-tooth. He visits the house sometimes – for supper, or post-case drinks – and Jack can’t help but feel that the older man is not so naïve as he would like them to think. For one thing, the man’s knowledge of weaponry rivals his own. He voices his suspicions into Phryne’s neck one night, as the moonlight eliminates her nearly translucent skin, and she sighs, _‘you’re probably right’_ , and arches into him. Jack decides to let the matter slide.



  1. Phryne’s companion, Miss Dorothy Williams, is stepping out with Butler’s constable. They sit in the kitchen, heads pressed together, and speak softly of mundane things while Jack polishes the silverware in the pantry. He was once this young and in love and spoke softly to his sweetheart of things ordinary and full of hope. But that was before the war; long before he became dour and damaged. The young, bright-eyed constable kisses Miss Williams good night and Jack’s heart twinges just a bit. He lowers the well-buffed spoon he’s holding in his hands and picks up a fork.



  1. It turns out that the foreign spy is no other than George Sanderson, the newly made Commissioner of Police. Inspector Butler makes the arrest himself, based on tips gathered by Jack and Phryne; several days later Sanderson is found dead in his cell. A heart attack, claims Doctor Macmillan; Phryne narrows her eyes at Jack but says nothing. After all, what happens in Melbourne, stays in Melbourne.




	23. At the Edge of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Tumblr 'AU+ 5 Headcanons' ask - Phrack + pirate world.
> 
> And now I kind of want to actually write the thing.

1\. Captain Jack Robinson of the _Victoria_ runs a tight ship. He’s stern and dour, but fair and just, as a man in his position is wont to be. Years ago, after the gruesome death of his beloved wife at the hands of a madman, Jack was entrusted by Pirate King Sanderson to ferry the souls of the dead across the sea to their final resting place in Davey Jones’ Locker. For this task, his heart has been ripped out of his chest and put under lock and key for safekeeping. Lagend has it that the heart of the ferryman is the key to acquiring a person’s deepest desire.

2\. Captain Phryne Fisher of the _Wardlow -_ a small vessel with a crew of five - used to be a member of the British Aristocracy. About a decade ago, when her family was on their way to her father’s new post at the West Indies, their ship was attacked by the Mad Pirate Foyle, and her sister Jane was snatched from her bed. Her parents were devastated; inconsolable they fled back to England and barricaded themselves in their estate. Her mother became sickly, her father became a drunkard, and Phryne vowed to sail to the edge of the world in pursuit of Foyle and the truth. 

3\. There’s a pirate summit in Tortuga and both captains attend. Phryne spots Jack surrounded by his crew and does everything in her power to try and draw him out, knowing that if he’s on land, then the heart must not be far. Their eyes lock a couple of times, and Phryne does her best to convey her desire through the flutter of her eyelashes and the tilt of her smile - she doesn’t mind taking the man to bed before she steals his heart and slits his throat; he’s handsome and charismatic, and she knows enough about his character to be substantially intrigued. He’s exactly the sort of man she enjoys using for blowing off some much-needed steam. 

4\. She draws his eye and he joins her for a drink - which turns into three, which then turn into a rather vocal session of vigorous fucking in his private cabin onboard the _Victoria._ He’s not even surprised when he wakes up with her naked astride him and her sharp knife pressed to his throat, and Phryne appreciates that more than she’d like to admit. His eyes glint in admiration as he flexes his hips beneath her, but she’s determined - _where’s the heart -_ she growls and pushes the knife into his skin. A few droplets of blood make their way down his neck; she fights the urge to lick them off. Jack isn’t fazed, not in the slightest - _I know who you are, my heart won’t help you_ \- he rasps, and she shudders. He confesses to knowing what she seeks, tells her he ferried Janey Fisher across the sea himself. The knife slips from her slack fingers. He holds her as she weeps.

5\. They are after the same man - Foyle is also the one who killed Jack’s wife, Rosie - and Phryne agrees to merge their crews for this revenge mission. They sail the seas, eat delicious food prepared by Phryne’s first mate, and fuck and fall in love. They catch Foyle at the edge of the world and hang him, and leave his ship broken and stranded. Jack ferries him across the sea, on a boat made of rotten flesh. 

They decide to continue sailing the seas together. 

Jack gives Phryne his heart. 

She keeps it safe.


	24. The Adventures of Captain Australia and The Swallow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Tumblr 'AU+ 5 Headcanons' ask - Superheroes.

1\. Jack is Captain Australia - a super-soldier from WWI, born out of secret experiments in the trenches to be sent on special high-risk operations. He stands for justice and for everything that is right. A man of the people and rescuer of kittens stuck up on the highest branches of the tree. 

2\. Phryne is “The Swallow” - a rich woman by day, a crime-fighting vigilante by night. She fights for the common man and the modern woman and the ability to wear trousers without shocking old society ladies. Nobody knows her secret identity, apart from her companion, her butler, her ward, and two charming red-raggers who drive a mean taxi.

3\. Phryne meets Jack at the Australian War Memorial on ANZAC Day and the two hit it off. He tells her he’d been struggling to find employment since the war ended and has recently decided to join the force, she suggests Melbourne as a crime-fighting base. Jack agrees.

4\. It takes him an embarrassing number of months to find out her secret identity and even then it happens by mistake. He searches for his _‘clothes-were-flying-around-the-room-last-night’_ discarded tie and chances upon her costume. He loves her even more, now.

5\. Captain Australia and The Swallow are the best crime-fighting duo in the southern hemisphere; they fight for the common man, kick major arse, and shag on every available surface. Oh, and they save kittens, too. 


	25. All the World's a Stage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Tumblr 'AU+ 5 headcanons' ask - actors.

1\. When Jack Robinson receives the telephone call that he got the part of DI Nathan Page in some 1920s period drama, he’s busy baking. He barely manages to wipe his hands clean - fingers sticky with oats and crushed coconut and golden syrup - before he lunges for his mobile, barking an irritated ‘ _what_ ’ into the device. He’s later very pleased that he managed not to drop the wretched thing into the biscuit dough. 

2\. He meets Phryne Fisher, the female lead, for coffee a few days before the filming starts. She already looks like the Honourobale Miss Essie Davis, and he’s genuinely impressed at her dedication to details. Her slick bob catches the rays of the midday sun, shining like black gold. She smiles when she sits down beside him and leans over to kiss his cheek - _I insisted they cast you, you know_ \- she confesses and winks. He’s halfway to being a little in love, but he doesn’t seem to care much. 

3\. Their chemistry is legendary - both on-screen and off - and the other actors and crew members start calling it ‘eye-fucking’ behind their backs. There’s a betting pool running on how soon they’re going to end up in bed together. So far, Tobias is closest; he’s given them three weeks. He’s only off by 2 days.

4\. Jack cycles to the studios every morning while Phryne drives her red 1977 Ferrari 308 fast enough to break the sound barrier. She takes pains to arrive at work precisely fifteen minutes ahead of him, looking slick and fresh, even if they spent the entire night fucking. They’re fooling no one, of course, despite making a big deal out of arriving separately. And that’s okay because everybody’s shipping them behind their backs. Hard.

5\. The show’s a great hit, people start shipping Nessie; Phryne gets a real kick out of reading all the E rated fics written about their characters. She especially likes that one ‘friends to lovers’ slow burn longfic written by ShakespeareLover38, who seems to have the character down to a T. She spends hours reading all her favourite passages to Jack and praising the author’s prolific writing style.

Jack never tells her it’s him.


	26. Setback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Tumblr prompt "jump, phrack, boat."

He wakes up handcuffed to a bloody mast, unsurprised in the slightest. As rude awakenings go, this one is as tame as they come with Miss Fisher riding shotgun. He’s not even alarmed, just vexed; he’d had plans for the evening, and they most certainly did not involve being taken hostage and left to die on a goddamn boat in the middle of nowhere. 

Next to him, groaning and cursing a blue streak with an intensity that would make Collins choke on his tea and turn beet red, Miss Fisher stirs from her prone position on the floor. She’s wearing a lovely grey-dove frock of all things - _plans, plans, plans_ \- and Jack notes forlornly that it must have fallen prey to their attempted execution; the long slashes in the silk skirt are jagged and merciless. 

“Glad you could join us, Miss Fisher,” he bites, all bark, of course. “I take it Mr Harris wasn’t too pleased by your stopping by his office yesterday for an impromptu interrogation?” 

He’s got to hand it to the woman, she’s got style. With an air of a true-born aristocrat, she rises to a sitting position as haughtily as possible under the circumstances, pushing herself upwards with little difficulty - even though her hands are bound with rope - and fixes her hair into an appropriate enough style with just a smidge of awkwardness. 

“Really, Jack; this is but a minor setback, nothing more.”

_A minor setback-_

“Damn it, Phryne,” he finds himself growling, completely exasperated with her, with himself, with the bloody universe that just won’t give them a break, “we were left here to die, nobody knows where we are; how can you be so cavalier?”

She sends him a brilliant smile and scoots closer, and he feels himself growing uncomfortably warm, despite their predicament. 

“Don’t fret, Inspector,” she whispers suggestively. “ Not all is lost; I never leave the house without _some_ aid.”

With a practised, if somewhat restricted, hand she fishes out the infamous knife, providing him with an eyeful of alabaster thighs and grey stockings in the process; without explaining much, she shoves the hilt between his teeth and rises on her knees to flex her wrists against the blade. Jack closes his eyes to avoid her wiggling cleavage. There’s only so much a man can take, after all.

A few twists and soft grunts that make his ears burn, see Phryne set free. With a triumphant crow, she reaches for her picklock and brandishes it in front of his face, grinning impishly.

“Now, as much as I enjoy seeing you in handcuffs, Jack...”

His mind short-circuits at the words, blanking out for a few precious moments. When he comes to, so to speak, he’s free of the cuffs and dazed beyond belief. Phryne Fisher, a vision in slashed and tattered grey, stands above him in all her rather indecent glory. 

God help him, but he’s in love with her.

“Now, I can see the foreshore from here, it’s really not that far,” she declares, her arms akimbo, “so get ready to jump, Jack. We swim to safety.”

He sighs and rises to his feet. Jump, she says. Well, that’s not unusual. 

As rude awakenings go, he’d had worse. 


	27. You've Got Mail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Tumblr ask "sweat, Phrack and mail, kisses".

The tiny mail room is hot and stuffy, permeated with the scent of stimulation and arousal. She’s pressed against the thin, steel-made shelves, knocking stacks of letters to the ground with her thrashing; sweat beads her forehead - she’ll have to reapply her powder, that’s for sure - and her bottom lip threatens to break under the heavy push of her teeth. 

Jack is kneeling at her spread feet, his trousers smeared with dust and some unidentified grime as he speaks his worship into her skin, as he drags his mouth up her slick inner thigh. Her jeans and knickers are thrown carelessly over the photocopier, her shoes are lying discarded in the corner. She’s naked from the waist down, but he’s as immaculately dressed as ever, hair coiffed, cheeks smooth; even the tie is right and prim! 

But Phryne Fisher, civilian consultant, is not a brilliant detective for nothing. She can tell he’s not nearly as composed as he appears to be by the press of his fingers against her bottom, by the sloppy kisses to the damp curls between her thighs, by the appreciative hum in the back of his throat. He enjoys this - luxuriates in it, really - his enthusiasm making for the sloppy haste of a stolen break, and when he french-kisses her clit with ardour, she shakes and weaves her fingers in his hair.

“He kissed the last of many double kisses,” she pants and feels him chuckling against her in witty delight. A minute later, she slides a little in her wreckage, slipping into his ready lap.

“Fuck, Jack,” she gasps and kisses his wet mouth. He’s smiling smugly, but she can’t care less - he’s allowed a little gloating. “Take off your trousers and let me return the favour.”

“I can’t, Phryne,” he sighs into the crook of her neck, his lips cool against her heated skin. “My ‘break’ ended five minutes ago. Collins is probably out there, looking for me as we speak.”

“Damn,” she moans and throws her head backwards. “I was very up for suc -”

“ _Phryne_.”

She sighs and flexes her arms around his neck.

“Oh, alright,” she concedes. “Give me a headstart?”

He looks at her fondly, his eyes bright and lips full.

“As always,” he says.

And she smiles.


	28. High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Tumblr ask prompt "hash-laced fudge, phrack, Aunt P's."

There’s an interesting looking box sitting on the kitchen table. It’s beautifully adorned, wonderfully crafted - round and colourful, and emitting the sweetest of smells. He lifts the lid with an inquisitive finger, peeking inside -

“I’d eat that with caution if I were you.”

He wheels around, caught red-handed, only to find Miss Fisher - still in her Cleopatra costume - leaning against the doorjamb and smiling tiredly at him.

“It smelled nice,” he says weakly, and her smile turns almost impish.

“I bet it did,” she chuckles, detaching herself from the door and entering the kitchen. “It tastes nice, too, and makes you feel so much better. For a while.”

He frowns at her, not comprehending, so she lifts the lid off and gestures at the perfectly cut pieces of fudge laid out nicely on baking parchment. Regardless of what they’ve just been thorough, despite Foyle still roaming free and uncaught, Jack’s mouth waters. He’s not had a chance to eat. 

“They’re laced with hash, you see,” Phryne explains, her eyes gleaming. “I rescued them from Aunt P’s house. Poor Mr Butler decided to sample the goods and was incapacitated for a good few hours!”

Jack’s eyes widen.

“Hash?!”

Phryne nods and runs a finger over the golden cubes.

“Hmmm. Guy has some interesting vices, Jack.”

She selects a particularly plump piece and pops it into her mouth, her eyes closing in obvious pleasure. Jack swallows rather thickly at the sight.

“Do you want one, Jack?” she asks, picking another inviting piece and bringing it close to his lips. “After the night we've just had, I think some relaxation is in order.”

He’s tempted, of course - if only to have her fingers against his lips. Soft, sweet, and remarkably dangerous. He can almost see it playing out - she’ll place the confection in his mouth, he’ll pull her fingers between his lips, lick at the sweet skin, make her perfect mouth part in a gasp. It will end with them sleeping together in her legendary bed - a welcome escape for a few hours - he may even stay the night under the pretext of protecting the household, but come the morning, he’d regret the time spent between her thighs. 

Not like this. Not now. Not from the wreckage of her past and that of his dying marriage.

Jack takes a step back, clears his throat. Phryne’s eyes dim just a little; she lowers the rejected piece back into the box.

“No, thank you, Miss Fisher,” he hastens to say, least she takes his rejection badly. “I think, under the circumstances, one of us must keep a clear head.”

She looks at him from under heavily painted eyelashes, her smile sad and tender.

“Thank you, Jack.”

His chest tightens, heart squeezing; the need to take her in his arms is almost excruciating.

“Do you wish me to stay?” he asks, his voice hoarse. This is a dangerous inquiry, of course, full of double meaning. Thankfully, she shakes her head. Jack smothers a sigh of relief. 

“No need, the house is protected,” she says, taking a step closer. “Your constables are everywhere. Jack... thank you. Truly.”

Her hand brushes his shirt, and he suddenly realises that his waistcoat is still unbuttoned. He can feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric, sense her fingertips nudging at his braces. Dangerous, dangerous, _dangerous_.

He clears his throat, nods at her. Her eyes are starting to glaze over.

“Don’t mention it, Miss Fisher. You should head to bed, I’ll see myself out.”

Her hand drops from his chest and she smiles beatifically at him. The fudge works swiftly.

“You’re a good friend, Jack.”

He smiles at her and opens the back door to her kitchen. She’s leaning against the desk, her head thrown backwards; lovely and kind, and a force of nature. He fears he might be half-way to being in love with her.

“Goodnight, Phryne.”

She wiggles her fingers at him, he steps into the night. 

The first night of his newly-acquired bachelorhood did not go as expected.


	29. It's a Kind of Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Tumblr 'AU+ 5 headcanons' ask - Powerful witch Phryne and lion animagus Jack

1\. At fifteen, half-blood Phryne Fisher, daughter of a muggle mother and a good-for-nothing wizard father, is already a promising young witch. Born into poverty and squalor, forced to see her father use magic to cheat at card games, Phryne vows to do anything in her power in order to pull her mother and sister out of the filth and away from Henry Fisher. But when Janey is kidnapped and the war starts, the broken family moves to England, where Henry become the Baron of Richmond, due to the fortuitous demise of a distant muggle cousin. Phryne is transformed from her Australian wizarding school to Hogwarts, where she’s sorted into Ravenclaw. She excels at Potions and Charms. Blue is definitely her colour.

2\. Jack Robinson is a young pure-blood wizard with an almost zealous passion for Quiddich. He’s a Chaser and Captain of the Quiddich team, and when he’s done with all the studying, he’d very much like to play professionally for Australia. His teachers think that, despite his obvious talent, turning to Quiddich post-graduation would be an utter waste of his academic skills, and suggest a career in the Ministry of Magic as an auror, instead. During Jack’s fifth year, he and a couple of mates decide to try and become animagi for a lark; it all turns rather disastrous in the end. One of the boys gets permanently stuck in a part-human, part-kangaroo form, another is severely poisoned. Jack is the only one to achieve proper transformation. Feeling guilty and remorseful, he registers at the MoM as soon as he can. His animagus form is a lion. 

During his last year at school, he meets Rosie, a muggle, and falls irrevocably in love. Afraid to tell her of his magical nature and lose her, Jack decides to take some time off from the wizarding world. He enrols into the police academy - _close enough to becoming an auror, for now_ , he thinks - and asks for Rosie’s hand in marriage. She accepts, of course, and the young couple starts planning their future together. But then, the war happens.

3\. Both Phryne and Jack decide to take part in this human war and enlist; she, as a combat nurse, he, as a very resourceful young officer. They meet accidentally somewhere in France, at a field hospital, when Jack is injured. He swims back into consciousness to the sound of her chanting charms over his open wounds. It takes them a while, but they recognise one another from their early school days before Phryne had to leave for England. They spend many hours together while Jack recuperates, feeling the kinship of two countrymen away from home who share a little more than a common piece of land. He tells her that he uses his animagus form to reign terror on the enemy, she tells him she uses her extensive knowledge of potions and charms to save as many soldiers as she can. He kisses her softly on the lips the day he’s discharged from hospital, she asks him to leave the guilt out of this memory and kisses him back. It will take them a decade to meet again.

4\. After the war and a brief fumbling period in France, Phryne throws herself into her travels, taking time to study foreign charms and research unknown potions. She reunites with her muggle-born childhood friend Mac, and together they spend a very productive year all over Europe until Mac is called back to Australia. Phryne stays behind, not yet ready to face the ghosts of her past.

Jack returns home a changed man. Having seen grief and death - and too many dementors and thestrals for his liking - he decides to embrace the muggle world and use his magic to help other people. He throws himself into his work, becomes the youngest DI on the force, and tries to reconnect with his wife. He almost succeeds - they’re on the brink of rediscovering their happiness - but, one evening, Rosie finds his wand. He explains everything, she blanches - there are tears and shouting; he’s pleading, she’s pouring herself some whisky with shaking fingers - this is the beginning of their end. A few days later, Rosie leaves to stay with her sister.

5\. In July 1928, Phryne steps off the boat straight into the waiting arms of Dr McMillan. Both know the reason for her sudden return, but neither acknowledges it with more than a sentence. She meets Jack again the very same day - at a crime scene, of all places - he’s even more handsome than he used to be; the dour, unfamiliar set of his brow providing a sense of still authority to his countenance that she finds incredibly attractive. He does not acknowledge their past acquaintance, but later, when the day is out, he comes to her hotel suite and they share a drink, reminiscing and filling in the blanks. They begin a tentative friendship and partnership, using their unusual skills to solve crimes and bring the evil to justice; they spend many evenings in each other’s company, flirt, and drink and play wizard chess, but they make no move to take the relationship further. He understands he’s in love with her when a badly-connected telephone call scares him half to death, she realises that she’s in love with him when her father turns up to cause trouble and Jack is a steady rock at her side. Both finally admit it at an abandoned airfield, one early morning in September 1929, standing over a portkey of one broken beer bottle designed to send her meddlesome father back to England where he belongs.

And this time, when Jack kisses her firmly on her oxblood lips, there’s absolutely no guilt. 


	30. Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Tumblr prompt "baby, Phrack, Phryne's bedroom".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: UNPLANNED PREGNANCY- RELATED ISSUES AHEAD.   
> Read at your own risk, my friends.
> 
> All my love and thanks to Aurora_Australis, Becs and Bee, who helped a lot with this. Thank you, my darlings.

It takes her an entire fortnight to finally acknowledge that something might be... _wrong_. At first, she ascribes the whole thing to stress - not enough sleep, a difficult case, Aunt P and her countless luncheons - those notoriously tiresome tea parties can do that to a body, after all. She laughs it off and sleeps in later than she plans and acts as if this unnatural delay doesn’t bother her; but when she nearly faints at a crime scene, rising from a squat over the murder victim, she starts dreading the natural conclusion. When she starts bringing up her breakfast in the mornings, she finally gives up and seeks out Mac.

One compassionate look says it all. Phryne starts crying.

“What will you do?” Mac asks gently, handing her a soft, checkered handkerchief. It’s a lovely pattern, the same as Mac’s waistcoat. Phryne wipes her nose, dabs the sodden cloth under her swollen eyes.

“I don’t know,” she answers truthfully, angry at herself for the uncharacteristic waterworks. She’s usually much more held-together. 

Mac stares at her in disbelief. 

“You’re not actually thinking of keeping it?” she mutters, frowning. They’re at the morgue, there are people outside. This is hardly discreet. “Phryne, you were always so adamantly against the very idea - “

“I know,” Phryne sighs, worrying the handkerchief in her hands, “but this...it’s... it’s Jack’s, Mac; there’s a lot at stake.” 

Mac nods and bends to kiss Phryne’s forehead in a quite uncharacteristic move of her own. 

“Don’t wait too long,” she urges quietly, pressing Phryne’s shoulder with gentle fingers. She doesn’t say anything explicitly, but Phryne understands all too well.

Time is of the essence.

* * *

She waits another week to tell him. 

Her days are spent in sickness and not much health, her nights are spent in steadfast insomnia. She’s on edge - a raw nerve, a frayed wire - ready to ignite and split and fall at any given moment. The thought of telling him - of seeing his face at her confession - has her retching over the bathroom sink.

When he finally comes to her, she’s in bed with a book she’s not really reading, her fingers shaking with anxious trepidation. He takes one look at her and smiles that thrice-damned half-smile of his, leaning in the doorway, with his hands in his trouser pockets.

“In bed by nine, and no cognac or D.H. Lawrence in sight,” he quips. “Are you ill, Miss Fisher?”

She’s got a whole speech planned - her reasons, her plans for the future, everything, detailed and explained, right there on the tip of her tongue - but what bursts forth is a choked _“I’m pregnant”,_ gasped into the suddenly stifled air of her boudoir. She watches as the smile and colour drain from his face, follows his stagger into the bedroom, after he barely manages to shut the door behind him; her eyes mist over as he stumbles to her side of the bed, as he lowers himself awkwardly to the edge, by her hip.

“How?” he asks, his voice no louder than a rasp. He’s shaken, too; she can tell by the white-knuckled grip he has on the edge of her bed. She doesn’t dare look up at him.

“It happens,” she says, shrugging, the book slipping down her crossed legs, “these devices are not fool-proof, you know, and we have been rather... prolific in our bedtime activities.”

She feels his hand settling over her doona-covered thigh, squeezing softly.

“Phryne...”

The gentle timbre of his deep voice makes her tear up begrudgingly. She turns her head away, swiping angrily at the unwelcome droplets, not wanting him to see her tears. With her eyes averted, she feels, rather than sees, his body shifting forward. His arms encircle her, his chin resting at the top of her head, and she surrenders, and buries her face in his solid chest and trembles. 

“How long have you known?” he asks quietly and kisses the crown of her head.

“I’ve missed my courses this month,” she mutters into his waistcoat, “I suspected. Mac confirmed it a week ago.”

He exhales loudly enough for her to hear.

“Christ, Phryne; why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

There’s no accusation in his voice, no judgment; this is so much worse than she expected it to be.

“I can’t keep it,” she cries, her fingers digging into his arms, willing him to understand. “Believe me, Jack, I wish there was another way... this was not a decision I took lightly -”

Jack kisses her cheek, her nose, brushes his lips over hers, tastes the salt on her skin.

“I know,” he mutters against her forehead, “I know.” 

This dear man. This _dearest_ man.

“You’re not angry?” She lifts her face to look at him. “You’re not cross that I’ve decided to - ?”

He shakes his head, blinking slowly. His eyes are soft, moist, full of compassion and understanding, and her heart tightens. She loves this man, oh how she loves him. It doesn’t frighten her. Not anymore.

“Phryne, I will support whatever decision you make. You know that.”

“Even if it involves the illegal abortion of your child?” This is not an easy question, but it needs to be asked.

He reaches for her clammy hands and brings them to his lips. His mouth is cool against her skin.

“Even so,” he promises truthfully, but seeing the sceptical look on her face, he sighs, and adds, “Yes, it’s true that once, eons ago, I wished for a traditional kind of family. A wife, children, climbing up the ranks – but, Phryne, it all changed with the war. I’ve everything I ever wanted, with you, and that’s enough.”

She reaches for his face, ghosts her fingers over his cheekbones, kisses him desperately for good measure.

“Jack Robinson,” she whispers brokenly against his lips. “You are the best of men.”

He scoffs and pulls her to him, his arms tight around her waist. She can feel his heavy breath against her neck, knows how overcome with emotions he is. Her hands thread into his hair, her lips press into his temple.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” he mutters hoarsely into her skin. “Let Mac help. That’s all I ask.”

She buries her head in the crook of his neck, presses herself against his solid body. She wants to feel his heart thudding as wildly as her own, wants to cling to him until nothing else in this world matters.

“I promise,” she kisses his Adam’s apple softly. He shudders in her arms.

* * *

Dot cries when she confides in her; big, genuine tears for the sake of her soul and that of the unborn child she reluctantly carries. 

“And nothing can change your mind, Miss?” she wails, her almost full cup of tea rattling dangerously in her shaking hands. Phryne sighs and shakes her head.

“Afraid not, Dot,” she smiles sadly at the younger woman. “You know my view on the subject.”

Dot falls silent for a few moments, only sniffling loudly every now and then. 

“Will... will it be as horrible as Alice’s -?” she asks, at last, unable to finish the sentence.

Phryne reaches for Dot’s hands, squeezing them softly, feeling incredibly grateful that Jack’s name stayed out of the conversation.

“No, absolutely not,” she promises, smiling reassuringly. “Mac says she’ll take care of everything. We trust Mac, don’t we?”

Dot nods, a little heartened by this piece of information, and Phryne sighs inwardly in relief. After all, there’s no need for both of them to worry.

* * *

She rouses from deep, heavy sleep to the sound of hushed voices and clinking glasses. A rather rancid scent of antiseptic permeates the air, combined with the strong smell of spirits - her best single malt whiskey, if she’s any judge - and a lingering sickly-sweet trace of ether in her nose; it all makes her rather queasy. Her eyes are still closed, but she can tell that the room - _her bedroom, she remembers_ \- is dimmed and peaceful; the window is slightly ajar, there’s a fire burning. It’s over.

“Do you think me a hypocrite?” a man’s voice - _Jack’s_ \- rasps from somewhere to her left. She frowns a little at the question - why would she ever think that - but before she can further contemplate the nature of the soft demand, she hears liquid being poured into glasses - two, by the sound of it - and drops the matter.

“Why?” another voice - _Mac’s_ \- inquires matter-affectedly. “Because of the procedure?”

Phryne can hear the glasses shifting, a soft, clinking sound; there’s another silence as the two other occupants of the sickroom take their respective sips.

“Well, it _is_ illegal, and I am a servant of the law,” Jack breathes a little hoarsely; if for the drink or for the subject, Phryne doesn’t know, “and yet I didn’t hesitate - not for a second, Mac - if it meant that she’s - “

“Jack,” Mac interrupts him, and to Phryne’s growing astonishment, her voice is soft, gentle, “nobody can blame you for wanting the woman you love to be safe and healthy.”

Phryne stops breathing for a few precious seconds, awaiting his response. 

Jack doesn’t disappoint.

“If anything were to go wrong, Mac... God, I would have never forgiven myself.”

This dear man. This _dearest_ man.

She stirs deliberately in bed, announcing her presence as best she knows, loudly and extravagantly. They’re by her side in seconds; Mac taking her pulse, Jack tracing the lines of her face with cold fingers. She opens her eyes to see their relieved faces.

“Hello,” she croaks, smiling indulgently. “Are you two having all the fun without me?”

Mac laughs almost hysterically, Jack sags onto the bed and looks away from her. Her fingers snake towards his, gripping tightly. He takes a ragged breath and hangs his head.

“I’ll leave you two alone for a few minutes,” Mac says, wisely reading the room. “I’m pretty certain there’s a slice of pavlova cake with my name on it, awaiting in the kitchen. I’ll be back to check on you a little later.”

The soft click of the door closing sounds loud and clear in the sudden silence of the room, and Phryne reaches out to run her free hand over Jack’s back.

“Are you alright?” she asks him softly, and he nods, keeping his head low and his eyes away from view.

“Jack,” she whispers, “I’m here.”

His fingers in her hand tremble a little, and she tries to rise to embrace him, but he senses her intent and leans over to bury his face in her hair, instead.

“I was worried,” he confesses, his voice on the verge of breaking. “Phryne...”

“I know,” she whispers, her fingers brushing at the soft, short hair on the back of his head. “I know, darling.”

“Are _you_ alright?”

She smiles, kissing his cheek. Dear, kind Jack.

“I will be sore for a while, but it will pass,” she divulges with surprising willingness, and he raises his face to look at her. She brushes the stray curls from his forehead, smooths the deep worry lines with her fingertips. “Jack, I want you to know... that the decision was so very hard to make.”

He blinks slowly, trying to clear his eyes, and turns his face into her palm, kissing the soft skin sweetly.

“I know.”

There’s no judgment in his eyes, no regret; only worry for her well being, and love - a lot of that.

“I do love you, you know,” she says quietly, her eyes growing heavy; she’s exhausted, and sleep beckons.

He kisses her lips so softly it might already be a dream, and rises to lie on her right, next to her. His mouth presses her shoulder softly, his large hand rests on her abdomen. She feels almost ridiculously safe.

They’ll be alright, her and him.

“Sleep, Phryne,” he whispers gently.

And she does.


	31. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the tumblr prompt: foyer, Phrack, verisimilitude.

He’s got too much drink in him – whisky, cocktails, brandy; spirits in his veins instead of blood. It makes him light – loose, almost elated, lethargic in his immoderation - and he leans a little more heavily against the mantelpiece in the warm parlour, blinking slowly at the smiling face of his benevolent hostess.

They’ve been indulging tonight, drink after drink after drink, faces smiling, eyes shining; it’s a case successfully closed, murderer brought to justice. There’s reason to celebrate, an occasion worth the satiation.

But the drink runs freely, and so does his heart – unguarded, unchecked, drunk on her attentions. It’s the hour for rash decisions and bad timing, the moment for resolve-cracking and haste. He recognises the signs; the thudding of his blood, the tightness in his chest. It’s time for tactical retreat – flee, regroup, live to secretly pine another day.

He rises from his seat, and she follows. There are excuses on his lips, apologies on his breath – _it’s late, he should go, she must be tired_ – and she smiles in understanding, knowing his iron-clad resolve well enough to choose her battles.

They’re standing in the foyer – his hat in his hands, her hands on his arms – and she leans ever so closely, and presses against him, her lips soft on his cheek. He can scent verisimilitude in every touch of her finger, every press of her mouth; see the honesty in her eyes and in her quickened breath. There’s truth in it all – and want, so much want – but he’s not yet ready to succumb to freedom.

He bids her goodnight.


	32. Swing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the tumblr ask "Phrack, rumbunctious, Aunt P's",

He finds her in the gardens, no doubt hiding from her battle-axe aunt and another one of her infamous charity luncheons. It’s a hot day, but there’s a soft breeze dancing past his ear and over the nape of his neck; Miss Fisher has the right idea - better be out amidst the softly shivering trees than inside with the tea trays.

She’s perched on the edge of an old wooden swing that’s hanging off a sturdy-looking branch of a vast, thick-rooted Moreton Bay Fig, her daintily-heeled feet kicking up a fine cloud of long-dormant dust. He glances in fond exasperation at the golden-brown tint of her stockinged ankles and smiles inwardly; Mrs Stanely will not be pleased.

Pryne looks up at his approaching steps and grins at him, scooting backwards in her wooden seat. 

“Come push me, Jack!” she cries jovially, swinging her feet upwards rather rambunctiously and throwing her head back, her slick black bob fanning behind her like a silk curtain.

So he does.

There’s blood in her laughter - loud and clear and vital - and he smiles affectionately at the ridiculously happy picture she presents. The swing creaks and groans under the adult weight, and the old, heavy rope grunts loudly and burns the palm of his hand when Jack grabs it too tightly.

“Tired of the luncheon already, Miss Fisher?” he asks pleasantly, the palm of his free hand pressing against the small of her back on her way up.

Phryne laughs and leans a little backwards - right into his warm hand - and plants her feet into the ground.

“Aunt P can manage a few extra minutes without me. Besides,” she says and turns her head to him, winking mischievously, “this is much more fun! Now, push me harder, Inspector!”

Her laughter resonates deep in his lungs and sets his face a-smiling - _loud and clear and vital_ \- and the blood rises in his veins and in his heart and in his cheeks. How easy it is to make her happy these days.

So he does. 


	33. Fetching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Tumblr prompt "Rain, Phrack, Garden".

There are dancing sunbeams on her slowly awakening face; not too persistent, not too pressing, but mischievous and impatient enough to rouse her from deep, bone-melting slumber. As rude awakenings go, she expects she’d had much worse. 

She stretches languidly, arms arching upwards almost felinely, her head tilting back to inspect the softly moving curtains above. There’s nothing fancy about them - plain, cream-coloured lace, already fraying a little at the edges, with no expert touch to remedy the unavoidable decay - but she has no doubt that whoever embroidered them so painstakingly, did so with a loving hand. Delicately woven remnants of a past life, frayed and decaying into memory. 

She’s alone in this large, masculine bed; the blue cotton sheets tangled around her naked body like some sort of practical, efficient cocoon. There’s no equally efficient male body to warm her sweat-cooled skin on this fine Sunday morning. And this nagging fact wouldn’t bother her, usually - not really - only, she’s never fallen into bed with him before, and to have him absent from her side now, after everything, discomfits her more than she cares to admit. 

Is he regretful? 

Remorseful? 

Disappointed with himself for finally succumbing, perhaps?

Is that why he’s not draped over her back now, breathing softly across the nape of her neck?

The mere thought makes her insides churn in an unpleasant way. In all her post-coital scenarios, she never envisioned self-doubt. 

There’s a shirt - _his_ \- lying crumpled on the bedroom floor, and she springs from the guts of her cotton cocoon to grab the coveted item. She slips into it with ease and rolls up the sleeves just a little, just enough to cover her wrists. She doesn’t bother with buttoning the garment all the way down - just three buttons over her midriff would do - if he could handle passionately kissing her cunt at night, he can very well handle seeing glimpses of it come morning. 

The house is quiet, filled with soft light, and the floor is warm against her bare feet. There are pools of sunshine on the wooden boards, pouring in from open windows and drawn-back curtains. She steps into them almost gleefully, her toes curling, and she feels like a child again - free, wild, _adventurous_. There are new plains to explore, new riches to find; who knows what treasures are to be uncovered here, in this unknown land? Her feet lead her down the corridor, further on her quest; no Collingwood pirate girl worth her salt can turn down a hunt such as this!

At long last - ten minutes into her great adventure - she finds him in the garden, hunched over some plants; and this time, there are no traces of lingering French perfume to alert him to her presence. She leans against the doorjamb, studying his strong back, admiring the curve of his buttocks, her eyes raking over his athletic form appreciatively. He’s a fine specimen of a man - all lean muscle and strong sinew; deft fingers and clever tongue - and she finds herself shivering in recollection, despite the warmth of the day and the lingering self-doubt of the morning. 

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding, Inspector?” she says, at last, unable to bear the silence a moment longer.

Startled, he wheels around, his face slack with surprise, and she takes the time to admire his front just as thoroughly as she did his back. His singlet is tight and a little dirty from his pottering, his moleskin trousers hanging low on his hips; it’s clear that he dressed in a hurry, not bothering with braces or a belt, fully expecting to return to her side as soon as possible. 

She’s so heartened by the image, so pleased by his hastily arranged dishevelled appearance, that she completely misses the moment his eyes find the gap in his shirt she’s wearing. He colours just a little - just enough to brighten his cheeks - and she’s suddenly reminded of the one night in her foyer, right after the fashion show, when he stood at the bottom of her stairs and looked at her like -

“ _Phryne_ ,” he mutters hoarsely, his eyes dark and hot; she’s very pleased she minded the gap.

“Come here,” she says softly. 

He doesn't need to be told twice. 

His lips on her neck are soft and cool, his warm body pressed to the softness of her belly. She can feel the coarseness of his singlet against her skin.

“I woke up alone,” she mutters half-admonishingly into his mouth, licking past his parted lips. He pulls away from her, blushing slightly.

“I’m sorry... I woke up early and decided to get some flowers,” he explains a little sheepishly, smiling that self-deprecating smile she loves so much. “It rained tonight, and, well...the orchids looked particularly fetching.” 

She looks over his shoulder at the wonderful assembly of crimson boat orchids, their delicate petals, still wet with the nightly rain, gleaming in the morning sun. 

“Very fetching,” she agrees and tightens her arms around his neck. “Did you mean to bring me flowers?”

He regards her impossibly fondly.

“I did.”

His hand slips under the open tail of his shirt, his fingers trailing hotly down her hip. She gasps when he finds her damp curls.

“Come here,” he echoes, smiling against her ear.

And she does.


	34. Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Tumblr ask "Angel, Phrack, London".
> 
> Long live the Luciphrack!

He spots them the moment they walk in.

The racy little Jazz club is loud, engulfed in cigar smoke, full of vices and beautiful people – and yet, the couple stands out. Even through the sins and willingness of the ready crowd, he can see that _they_ are special.

It’s been years since he’d had a holiday – centuries, really – and he never could tell human ages properly, but to his timeless eyes, the couple looks relatively young. Not in the first bloom of youth, but not in the waning of it, either. If anything, the fine specimens are at their prime – a man and woman of lovely physical attributes that he wouldn’t mind entertaining in his chambers for a night. Two, even, if he’s lucky; three, if his sanctimonious excuse of a brother takes a little longer to catch up to him.

They’re lovers, this much is certain. The way they move together speaks of familiarity and intimacy that go beyond friendship, or any other sort of relationship that does not involve carnal pleasures. A brush of fine-manicured fingers down the lapels of a suit jacket, a steady hand at the small of a deliciously exposed back, soft lips pressed to the shell of an ear – he’s seen it all. Hell, he’s been a willing participant in this particular mating dance since humanity decided to become erect and take up travel. From the height of his aeon’s worth of expertise, he can tell that the couple is likely to be extremely entertaining.

The woman – slender, sensual – leans into her companion and whispers something in his ear. The gentleman tilts his head to better hear his lover, his eyes scanning the crowd vigilantly. Together, they are a sight to behold – smooth lines and gentle curves, shining sequins and sharp angles. He briefly wonders whether they will be open to considering an addition to their dance, blind to the world as they are, but the doubt passes as quickly as it comes. He’s never had any trouble before; after all, he’s _the_ master of persuasion – sin itself – and nobody can pass on the opportunity to avail themselves of his services.

Plans and mind made, he rises from his seat, downs the fine single malt whisky he’s been nursing for the past thirty minutes, and makes his way towards the couple.

After all, time waits for no man, and neither does the Devil. 


	35. Drabble Me This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 12 prompts in the form of drabbles/drabble-adjacent. Mostly Phrack, some Rosie/Jack.
> 
> Enjoy!

  1. **Casual touch, bed, a distraction (Phrack):**



There’s blood in his lungs, there’s mud in his eyes, there’s death in his heart. A scream rises in his belly – deep, deep down, pressing on his kidneys, treading on his spleen – and spills as dying gurgles from the ashes of his throat. It goes on and on, he’s shaking, trembling; there’s pressure on his left side, hot, burning –

He wakes gasping to find her pressed to him, her eyes wet and fingers gentle. She touches his arm, she touches his ribs, she kisses his shoulder.

“You’re safe, Jack,” she mumbles into his neck. “You’re safe, darling.”

He lets her distract him.

  1. **Bumping shoulders together, piano bench, fun (Phrack):**



The number he’s playing is nothing short of bewitching. His fingers are flying on the keys – caressing, kissing, making love to the blacks, romancing the whites – masterful strokes by masterful hands.

She slides onto the bench next to him as his hands still, bumps her shoulder against his.

“What sort of witchcraft is this, Inspector Robinson?” she asks, beyond charmed.

He flushes rather prettily and smiles self-deprecatingly at the keys.

“It’s called “The Crave”,” he says, giving the keys a little wobble. “By Jelly-Roll Morton. My brother and I heard it played by someone who met Jelly-Roll in Chicago last year. And, well, I picked it up.”

Clever, clever man.

She leans into him, her red lips pressed to the spot below his ear.

“Well, I know a little something about craving.”

He smiles.

  1. **Speaking against skin, bathroom, happiness (Rosie/Jack):**



He stands before the basin wearing nothing but his trousers, the blade gliding down his sharp cheek with immaculate precision. There’s steam rising from the water, clouding the mirror; she can hear the clink of the razor hitting the ceramic bowl as he rinses it out.

Her eyes half-masted, she lounges in bed, still warm from his caresses, but the strong lines of his back beckon. He’s a masterpiece of strong arms and broad shoulder, of lean musculature and wiry sinews. And the way he moves between her thighs –

She hides her blush between his shoulder blades, wraps her arms around his slender hips. The blade halts in its descent. 

“I’d have you spend the rest of the day in my bed, Constable Robinson,” she sighs against his skin.

He drops the razor in the water and turns in her embrace. Only one side of his face is clean-shaven.

“Time and crime wait for no man, Mrs Robinson,” he replies cheekily, and she rolls her eyes at him. That man and his puns.

But ever the generous lover, he leans to press kisses to her lips, her nose, her ear.

“I shall die in thy lap tonight, Rosie,” he rasps, and the promise sinks low in her belly.

It’s only after he’s gone for the day that she realises there’s shaving cream on the tip of her nose.

  1. **Tracing fingers over skin, friends or relative’s house, as a distraction (Rosie/Jack):**



She’d never thought she’d lose her virginity against the door of her father’s study - during her own engagement party, no less – but here they are.

It all starts innocently enough -she touches his wrist; he’s got his hand on the small of her back – it’s nothing short of chaste and above-board, and she – the epitome of virtue and chastity. 

Until she isn’t.

It takes but a minute to drag him down the corridor when no-one’s looking, another to start fumbling with his crisp suit. And bless him - he tries to be noble - but she burns, and burns for him; she has no use for men of God or magistrates. She’s his and he is hers, and the door is a good place as any to affirm the connection. 

He’s pressing into her with all the eagerness of a man in love and kisses her with tenderness tenfold. And afterwards, they giggle and blush, sharing his now thoroughly soiled handkerchief, and kiss with teeth.

There’re specks of dried blood on her inner thighs for the rest of the evening. She doesn’t give a jot.

  1. **Scratching back/scalp, kitchen, no reason at all (Phrack):**



Mr Butler rises early, even on Sundays. It’s not because of his job – he’s always been an early riser, even in his youth – but rather because he doesn’t like missing time. Besides, Mrs Butler had always been especially fond of mornings.

He enters the kitchen at half-past-six and starts on the eggs; he’s got a feeling they’d be in high demand soon. As will be a pot of tea, and some toast, no doubt. Better add some biscuits, and Dorothy’s scrumptious nut loaf, too; they’d never go to waste.

Sure enough, at quarter-to-seven, he can hear the tell-tale groan of the stairs, and a following “good morning, Mr Butler,” mumbled in a familiar, deep voice, still raspy with sleep. He turns around, smiling amicably, and gestures towards one of the chairs.

“Good morning, Inspector,” he greats the immaculately dressed man. “Would you care for some eggs, and the paper?”

Something lights up behind the still slumbering eyes of the younger man when Mr Butler starts plating the eggs and toast.

“Thank you, Mr Butler,” he says gratefully, and takes a sip of tea, sighing in content at the warmth.

“Is it to the station today, Inspector?” the older man asks, in genuine curiosity. “On a Sunday?”

The man colours a little and lowers his toast.

“I took Detective Herrington’s shift,” he explains, clearing his throat. “His wife is unwell, and I don’t mind, really.”

Mr Butler smiles pleasantly and nods. He really is quite fond of the Inspector.

He excuses himself to his duties after a while - the silver needs a good polish – and retreats to the pantry, to give the younger man his space. He’s right in the midst of polishing a rather stubborn knife when the stairs creak again; a discreet, inquisitive peak reveals Miss Fisher, still sleep-tussled, entering the kitchen.

The paper doesn’t move as she draws closer, but the smile on her face indicates that the reader has noticed her arrival. She reaches the Inspector’s chair, and leans over his shoulder, stroking her fingers into his coiffed hair and causing him to groan in protest. Her laughter is low and husky and is all too endearing to the man in the chair, if the lowered paper and the soft smile on his face are any indications. When he reaches for Miss Fisher and pulls her into his lap, causing his teacup to rattle on the table, Mr Butler averts his gaze, smiling.

After all, the silver needs a good polish.

  1. **Hooking chin over shoulder, hospital, writer’s own idea (Phrack):**



There’s a raid and it’s ugly, as these things often tend to be. He knows it, Collins knows it – hell, even Mrs Collins knows is – and yet…

Phryne comes up from behind him, hugs his waist and hooks her chin over his shoulder.

“I ordered Dot to go home and rest,” she murmurs softly, kissing the wool of his suit jacket; he can feel the pressure of her lips through the fabric. “She shouldn’t be running around so close to her time, no matter the circumstances.”

He nods absent-mindedly, his eyes glued to the immobile figure on the bed. This should never have happened. He should never have –

“Jack,” Phryne’s voice is tender and gentle, and he has to physically restrain himself – he mustn’t flinch, he mustn’t – “this isn’t your fault.”

He nods mutely again.

_Then why does it feel like it is?_

  1. **Hooking chin over shoulder, floor, habit (Rosie/Jack):**



They lie on the rug before the hearth, sated and bested.

He’s flat on his belly, eyes closed, and she traces the scars on his back in heart-breaking finality, her fingers trembling over the puckered flesh.

It cannot go on, she knows it, and she suspects he does, as well. This – the frenzied joining of bodies, the heated kissing of skin – is all they have left of their crumbling marriage; nothing to show for but a quiet house and a few fleeting moments of ecstasy.

“Jack,” her voice shakes as she presses a kiss to his shoulder. “I want a divorce.”

He stiffens, doesn’t turn, but his voice is soft and tender when he answers, “whatever you want, Rosie.”

She hooks her chin over his shoulder, years of habit coming to her aid, and kisses his cheek. She’s not the least bit surprised to find it as wet as hers.

“I love you still,” she mutters against his jawline, feels the slight spasm in the muscles.

“And I, you, Rosie,” he answers, his voice hoarse with feeling. “Always.”

They lie entwined for hours until the night is out.

  1. **Playing with hair, sofa, for the first time (Phrack):**



The bottle of Italian wine is consumed rather swiftly, followed by two cocktails and quite a few tumblers of her best single malt. Jack and Phryne, a little past tipsy, abandon all pretence at properness and decorum, and sit so close on the chase, that they all but appear fused together.

His hand traces the strands of her raven hair very softly, and she wonders whether he’s aware of the action at all.

“Do you regret it, Jack?”

He turns to look at her upturned face. Her eyes are a little moist and worried, the clear emotion shining through; her intoxicated mind is bringing down the walls, brick by brick.

His lips still tingle from that kiss, from being pressed to foreign lips, from tasting a mouth that wasn’t _hers._ He knows his own heart now; there’s no more doubt.

“Not a thing,” he vows, fingers dancing down the nape of her neck.

She sighs into his shoulder, finally at ease.

  1. **Holding hands, train compartment, nostalgia (Phrack):**



The train ride is as uneventful as they come, which – frankly – comes as quite the shock.

She flips the pages of her book in clear boredom, not paying the slightest attention to the words.

From across the table, her partner glances at her fondly over his newspaper.

“Getting bored with the quiet life, Miss Fisher?” he asks cheekily, to which she sighs quite dramatically and harrumphs in a rather unladylike manner.

“You’d think they’d at least supply us with a juicy murder or two!”

“I wasn’t aware the option was included in the train fare,” he deadpans and folds the paper.

She rolls her eyes at him, supposedly unimpressed, but the slight curl of her lips tells a different story.

He reaches for her hands.

“Do you remember our previous train ride together, Miss Fisher?”

“I remember there wasn’t much riding involved, Inspector.”

The glint in his eyes borders on wicked.

“I reckon it’s high time we remedied that.”

She can’t discard her book fast enough.

  1. **Sitting close enough to press knees together, work, no reason at all (Phrack):**



There’s a case, and there’s supper.

They sit to a feast of succulent duck and very good wine. Mr Butler has outdone himself once more.

They talk and laugh and flirt as they discuss the case. There’s light in her eyes, and freedom in his.

Once the food is cleared away, they spread papers and files and evidence all over the dining room table, and huddle close to inspect the facts.

The hours pass, the whisky flows, and facts turn a little blurry. He can smell the sharp scent of her perfume, underlined with just a tinge of sweat; she can feel his warm breath on her neck. Their knees press together.

There’s too much whisky, and too much everything else. He rises to excuse himself; she follows to escort him to the door. The files are left scattered on her table.

He walks home to clear his head.

**11.Tracing fingers over skin, Aunt P’s, Mischief (Phrack):**

He’s being wicked again.

Hand slipping under her dress, fingers dancing over sensitive skin – up, up, up; just above her garter, tracing the borders of her French silk – stroke after stroke after stroke. When one daft finger decides to declare war on France, she nearly chokes on the Asparagus Aunt P is so fond of serving at luncheon.

It’s another dreadfully dull affair at the old battle-axe’s – fundraising for this or that cause; she’s there solely to charm – and the poor Inspector is amusing himself in a way that should frankly lead to his arrest. And hers as well, for that matter. She casts a glance in his direction and finds him thoroughly engrossed in his food; below the desk, his finger traces her clit.

She clamps her thighs hard on his hand.

He lifts his head from the plate and raises his eyebrows in challenge.

Why, the smug bastard!

She turns to her aunt in false brightness, determined to take him down a peg.

“Aunt P,” she calls across the table, “did you know, Jack here is eager to hear all about your collection of miniature zebras! About each and every one of them, in fact!”

To her left, she hears Jack try to stifle a horrified groan unsuccessfully, and she smirks in triumph.

After all, two can play this game.

  1. **Rub arms/back for warmth, rain, stubbornness (Phrack):**



The police car breaks down just a few kilometres shy of Melbourne. The rain begins to fall quite heavily precisely four minutes after. Inside the car, the rather miffed pair of passengers sit with their arms crossed and their brows furrowed.

“This wouldn’t have happened if we took my car, Jack!” protests the lady of the two. Her clothes are elegant and expertly tailored, but hardly right for being stranded in the middle of nowhere with a storm brewing.

“On police business, I drive the police motorcar, Miss Fisher,” mutters the man called ‘Jack’, his tone indicating that this is an often-repeated mantra of his. “Besides, none of this would have happened, if – “

“If _what_ , Inspector?”

“You _know_ what, Miss Fisher!”

“Oh! So this is all somehow _my_ fault?”

Thunderous silence descends upon the vehicle in a manner quite resembling the storm outside, and the pair turn to their respective windows. The unwelcome reticence yawns and stretches, engulfing many minutes and impatient little huffs, until it is disturbed by the faint sound of chattering teeth.

The man turns from the window.

“Are you cold, Phryne?” he asks, and his deep voice is now layers softer than it was. There’s caring in that voice, and not a small amount of longing.

“…no.”

“I can hear your teeth chattering, Miss Fisher, and your fingernails are turning blue. Here, take my coat.”

“I don’t need your coat, Jack. I’m perfectly fine as I am.”

“Of course you are,” he answers indulgently, “but take it anyway.”

“I told you, I don’t –“

“Just take the bloody coat, Phryne!”

“…..”

“…..”

“…Jack?”

“Yes, Miss Fisher?”

“I’m still cold.”

He reaches out and rubs her back with great care. She glides closer, huddling for warmth.

“Better?”

“Better.”

Outside, the storm rages.


	36. After Apple-Picking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the October prompt "Apple Picking".
> 
> Title and quote from Robert Frost's poem "After Apple-Picking".

There’s mischief in his blood tonight,

and fire in his bones -

\- and belly. Oh, what delight -

\- it is to hear the tones -

\- of pleasure in her voice, 

and know beyond a doubt,

that she is happy with her choice,

more than she is without. 

There’s mischief in his blood tonight,

and lightness in his chest, 

and in his mind some words to cite.

Mouth lowered to her breast, 

_“Magnified apples appear and disappear,_

_Stem end and blossom end,_

_And every fleck of russet showing clear.“_

He breathes against the bend.

There’s mischief in his blood tonight.

She laughs against his lips.

And they do kiss, and they do bite, 

And they do slide below her hips.

But then he’s deep and close and slow, 

They rise and fall as one.

She cries and arches from below,

And he is truly gone.

There’s mischief in his blood tonight,

but all the play is spent -

\- and only love remains, as bright,

and fragrant as the scent -

\- of apples, red and sound,

and ripe for autumn yield.

His blood is easy, settled, bound -

to her, to them -

\- he’s healed. 


	37. Come Hither

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just look up the gif of Jack Robinson crooking his two fingers in 3X07 and you'll understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, Fire_Sign, I needed that image seared into my brain!

He knows exactly what he’s doing. Head tilted, eyes bright, generous mouth downturned – he knows, he knows, _he knows_. The twist of his body, the angle of his hips when he moves – towards her, always towards her– there’s no mistaking his intent.

He’s subtle, he’s witty – innuendo upon innuendo upon steely resolve – but he knows. He knows, God damn him, and she burns.

And later – weeks, months later – when he does the same little twist of his wrist, and she dies just a little; he knows then, too.

‘Smug bastard’, she whines at the crook of his fingers, at the press of his thumb, and dies, and dies, and dies.

And he smiles that downward smile and presses that generous mouth to her lips, to her breast, to her cunt.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. Fingers curved, thumb rigid, ‘come hither’ – and she comes.


	38. Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the word prompt 'Ashes'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ATEN'T DEAD.

When the Canons are heard it's hard to sleep,   
try as he might.   
The mud, the blood,   
the lice, the mice,   
are poor companions for the night. 

And even though it's been ten years since last he'd set a foot in France,   
The Muses, silent though they are to be,   
still lead him on a merry dance. 

He sees the sights that Glory left  
to rot in foreign turnip fields.   
His eyelids flutter, body shifts,   
the nerves are torn, exposed, and peeled - 

He’s out of bed. There's light ahead.   
He makes his way towards his garden.   
And there, with shaking hands he lights  
a long-forsaken smoke in pardon. 

The Ashes fall down at his feet,   
the Canons halt in their delight.   
He pulls, and drags, and breaks, and breathes, 

-one beat-

and all is silent for the night.


End file.
